by Fiona Patton
He halted the kazakin several hundred yards away. He was still uncertain whether the figure was human or spirit, but now, as it raised one hand toward them, he could feel it reaching greedily for his life’s power. Frowning, he brought up his own hand to deflect its attack, and it swayed weakly in response.
Spirit, then.
“Wait here.”
Removing a ward fetish from his belt, he dismounted. As the company fingered their own protections nervously, he approached the creature as cautiously as one might approach a wild animal, holding the fetish up before him.
Behind him, Rayne stirred with impatience, unwilling to make use of her own wards until the creature proved to be other than physical.
On closer inspection, the figure seemed to be a slight, brown-haired boy of eleven or twelve, his sunburned face a mask of bruises and ugly red scratches, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. His clothes were little more than tattered and bloody rags and, as Kursk drew near, he saw him shiver with cold. Keeping his movements slow and careful, he held one hand out toward him.
“Child,” he said gently, “what do you do here?”
The boy turned gray eyes streaked with wisps of bright white power on Kursk’s face and the Yuruk leader felt a chill run up his spine.
Not spirit, but not truly human either.
“I’m watching for the dawn,” the boy whispered, his voice low and rasping. “The dawn is creation.” He frowned. “Or destruction, I’m not sure which yet. But the dawn will help me see which one it is.”
“But the dawn is long past, child.”
“No, it’s a prisoner in a tall tower. But I’ll get it out. One day. If I feel like it,” he snarled, his gaze suddenly turned inward.
Kursk stilled the urge to back away. The spirits had told him something strange and powerful would be born on the wild lands, but he hadn’t expected it to look like a half dead, half mad boy-child. That limited his responses. Forcing himself to take another step forward, he froze as the boy suddenly tensed.
“It’s all right. I won’t hurt you. But what are you, human or spirit?”
The boy cocked his head to one side as if the question gave him some pause. “I don’t remember,” he said finally.
“You’re bleeding. Who harmed you?”
“Others.”
“Others? Others like yourself?”
“Maybe.”
“Where do you come from?”
The boy’s eerily bright eyes narrowed. “The shining city,” he answered after a moment.
“Shining?”
The boy gestured toward the southeast. “The city ...” he repeated, then paused with a frown as if he wasn’t sure what to say next. “The city of lights and power,” he added finally. “The city of steel and stone.”
“The city of ... ? Do you mean Anavatan?”
The boy nodded.
“But that’s miles away. How did you come to be here? Where are your abayon?”
The faintest of smiles crossed the boy’s face. He raised his fist to his ear and Kursk could see something black clutched in his fingers. “Dead,” he answered flatly. “Everyone’s dead, even...”
He held his hand out to show Kursk a large stag beetle, its carapace badly cracked, lying in his palm. The boy closed his fist over it again.
“It’s dead, but it still talks to me, helps me think. It didn’t leave.” He glanced around blankly. “It’s the only thing that didn’t leave. Even the spirits left.”
“The spirits?”
The boy nodded, his face paling to a sickly shade of gray. “They ran away when they saw you coming and I’m so thirsty ...” His eyes grew pinched. “I want them to come back.”
A tinkling of bells swept a few of the wisps of power from his eyes and Kursk glanced over to see Rayne sliding down from her mount. He gestured.
“Bring water.”
“Yes, Aba.”
Making her way to his side, she handed him her waterskin, then stared frankly at the boy, taking in his injuries and dazed demeanor with a flick of her eyes. As he snatched the waterskin from Kursk’s fingers, she tilted her head to one side.
“Who is he, Aba?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
She turned. “Who are you? What’s your name?”
He blinked uncomprehendingly at her as water dribbled down his chin, then shrugged. “Graize,” he said finally as if he’d had to pull the word from some far distant place, then returned his attention to the waterskin.
Kursk frowned. Graize was a Volinski name, meaning lonely mountain if he remembered correctly. The boy had the look of the people across the northern sea, but it still didn’t explain how he’d gotten there.
“Aren’t you cold?” Rayne continued.
The boy—Graize—brought the beetle up to stare intently at it for a moment, then nodded.
“Yes.”
Kursk pulled off his sheepskin jacket.
“If you come with us, you’ll be warm and fed, Graize. Will you come with us?”
“Come ... ?” He tipped his head to one side as if the question made no sense to him, then brought his unfocused gaze to bear on Kursk’s face. “Will you let the spirits come back?” he asked.
Now it was the wyrdin’s turn to pause. The spirits could be very dangerous if they weren’t handled properly, but for all his physical appearance, this boy might still be only human seeming himself. To refuse the spirits might be to refuse the boy, and the portents had led them to the boy.
“As long as the spirits do us no harm,” he answered finally.
“They won’t; they’re mine.”
“Then they may come with us.”
Graize’s eyes cleared for a moment. “Then I’ll come with you, too.”
“Good.”
Stepping forward, Kursk draped his jacket very gently over the boy’s blood-encrusted shoulders, but as soon as it touched his skin, he collapsed. Kursk caught him before he hit the ground and, noting with some relief that Graize felt as human as any one of his own children, lifted him into his arms and jerked his chin toward Rayne.
“Well, it looks as if we’ve got what we came to the wild lands to find. Fetch my pony.”
“Yes, Aba.”
As she passed by, she bent and picked up the beetle that had fallen from Graize’s limp fingers. Kursk glanced over at it.
“Keep it for him. I think it’s his birth fetish.”
Her lip drawn up in a faint sneer, she nodded and, after tucking it into the small hide bag at her belt, headed for her mount.
Lost in his sea of silver lights, Graize gave himself over to the encompassing safety of the older man’s arms as a host of comfortingly physical sensations washed over him. Kursk smelled like exotic plants and animal hides, and felt like clear, clean water. The tinkle of his pony’s bells sounded like raindrops on the water and seemed to keep the power of the spirits from overwhelming his mind. He felt calm and quiet with no need for thoughts or words. No one had ever made him feel like that before.
For a brief moment, a distant memory of a man’s face looking down at him, his own gray eyes smiling, flitted by and then was lost again as the image of another man, black hair falling into dark, fathomless eyes, rose up again. But once again he swept it aside. He still didn’t know who that was. He didn’t know who anyone was, but for the first time since he’d woken up with dirt in his mouth and a host of spirits swimming through his veins, he didn’t care. He was safe and he was warm, his battle on the streets of Anavatan the night before already fading to no more than a distant nightmare. As Kursk lifted him onto his own mount, Graize released all memory of the shining city and the life he’d once lived there and embraced the shimmering power of the Yuruk leader and his people.
Miles away, Brax was giving up his old life with a lot more difficulty, wincing as the growing pressure of Estavia’s presence pushed him down the street toward Her temple.
He and Spar had been walking all day after Drove’s knife had bought them a jar of co
mfrey salve for their injuries and his five aspers a breakfast of bread and honey with two cups of extra-sweet tea and a handful of dried apricots. Spar was looking better already, especially after Brax had hooked a new jacket for him off a clothier’s cart while the merchant argued with a customer about the meaning of Estavia’s bells the night before. The God had given him a sharp mental smack for that, but after Brax had patiently explained that the younger boy could not possibly walk through the damp and chilly streets all day without it, She’d relented. With the resigned belief that this was only going to get worse once they reached the temple, he glanced over at Spar. Despite the jacket, he was starting to flag; his eyes as shocky as they’d been that morning and he was beginning to favor his bad leg. Never a good sign.
“Who’d of thought the city was so big, huh?” Brax joked. “But that tea seller said the temple was close. Breathe deep; you can smell the fruit trees, can’t you?”
Spar nodded wearily.
“So we’re nearly there. Come on.”
He quickened their pace as drops of rain began to hit the cobblestones all around them. Nightfall was nearly an hour away, but it wouldn’t do them any good to get caught in the rain. He could feel Spar’s growing agitation and, as the thunder cracked above their heads, both boys broke into a run.
They reached the temple’s public parade square a few moments later. A hundred yards away, across the vast, open expanse of flagstones, two sentries, looking a hundred times more dangerous than any garrison guard in their black enameled armor, stood as still as onyx statues before the huge cylindrical front gatehouse towers of Estavia-Sarayi. Their tall, hook-bladed halberds gleamed in the dull light and their sharp eyes tracked immediately to the two boys as they stepped onto the square. Spar froze.
“It’s them or that,” Brax said simply, jerking his head toward the glowering sky.
Spar glanced longingly back toward the city and Brax shook his head.
“We’d never make it. Not now. Look,” he said, his voice taking on an urgent tone as a streak of lightning rippled across the sky. “You’re feeling the storm, not the temple, but if you don’t like it, we can always leave in the morning, all right? She won’t make us stay if we’re not happy. And I won’t make us stay if you’re not happy. I trust your feelings, but just give it one night’s try, all right? Just one?”
His eyes wide and fearful, Spar nodded reluctantly.
“All right. C‘mon, then. Like Cindar taught us, yeah? Confident and like we’re meant to be here, ’cause we are.”
They started walking. Rain began to fall all around them and Brax fought the urge to run. One wrong move and Spar would bolt; he could feel it. As they came abreast of the sentries, he felt Estavia pushing him forward and used the feeling to square his shoulders. They were meant to be there. She had sent them. Bunching his fists into the back of Spar’s jacket, he shoved him past. Through his new bond with the Battle God, he felt Her touch the minds of the sentries, commanding passage, but the skin between his shoulder blades still crawled with the knowledge that they could’ve killed them both in a heartbeat. Breathing carefully through his mouth, he propelled Spar under the bristling teeth of the raised portcullis and into the dark entrance tunnel beyond.
The patch of dim light at the end seemed a hundred miles away.
When they finally stepped out into a shadowy, rain-slicked courtyard, bigger than any they’d ever seen, Spar sagged and would have fallen if Brax hadn’t caught him by the arm.
“Almost there.”
Behind them, the gate closed with a heavy boom and Spar jumped. Brax forced himself to laugh.
“That was close, huh?” he asked lightly. “Well, we’re through the first part, anyway. Which way do we go now, do you think?” He glanced around at the huge empty courtyard. High-walled buildings, their shuttered windows dark save for the occasional flicker of lamplight through the slats, surrounded them on all sides, shielded by tall, dark trees and wrapped about by four long, pillared galleries. Something he couldn’t name drew his gaze to the far southern comer, but as he took a step in that direction, the God’s presence impelled him to the east, past the smell of cooking. He shook his head at Spar’s imploring glance.
“We can’t go to the kitchens just yet,” he explained, feeling the truth of his words as a God-wrought image of warmth and safety grew in his head. “We’ll eat soon, I promise.” Right? Eat really soon? he asked silently. “But right now we’ve got to get to where we’re going and that’s that big, blocky tower up ahead. Someone’s going to meet us there.”
Spar didn’t bother to glance past Brax’s pointing finger. His face pinched and hungry, he just hunkered down inside his new jacket, following the older boy as he started along the shadowy gallery and shivering as lightning lit up the sky. They reached a small wooden door at the far end just as a slight fall of hail began to patter against the courtyard. Pushing at the door experimentally, Brax shot the other boy a confident smile as it creaked open.
“See, soon we’ll be safe inside and Havo’s Dance can howl for us all it wants to. C‘mon.” He slipped through the door and, after only a heartbeat’s hesitation, Spar followed.
They found themselves in a long dark corridor, high latticed windows throwing just enough light to see the length of marble wall to the left and rows of closed doors to the right. It was empty of people, just like the courtyard.
“Everyone must be at prayers or something,” Brax noted. “This way.”
Their bare feet slapping against the floor, they followed the corridor along until it opened into a wide central atrium, flanked by two sets of heavy, brass double doors. Brax indicated the left ones with his chin.
“They lead back outside, I’d guess,” he said quietly, the large, echoing space making him want to whisper.
Spar jerked his own chin at the opposite corridor with a questioning expression and the older boy shook his head.
“No. She wants us to go this way.”
He made for the right-hand doors. Easing one open a crack, he gaped as a shaft of lamplight spilled into the atrium.
“Look at this.”
Beyond the door, they saw a huge room, lit by a number of hanging lamps, their fine chains disappearing toward the dark, unseen ceiling above. Rows of weapons and strange-looking pieces of armor lined the walls beside huge round plates of beaten silver and gold. Half a dozen carved marble daises sat in the center of the room, one under each lamp. As they approached, the gleam of precious metals and fine gems sparkled invitingly at them.
“I told you so,” Brax mouthed, running his fingers along the smooth, golden handle of what looked like—but probably wasn‘t—a beautifully wrought oyster shucking knife on the central dais.
Nearby, Spar nodded in mute amazement, going up on his toes to peer at a jewel-encrusted book set on a silver base. His brows drew down.
“Yeah,” Brax agreed. “Ugly, isn’t it?” He turned a wide grin on the other boy. “But even the smallest of those little rocks’d keep us for a month. They sure are a trusting lot here.” He glanced over at an equally jewel-encrusted sword lying across a black-and-gold-damask cloth on the next dais. It tingled under his fingertips and he rubbed them absently against his tunic. “I guess they can afford to be, though,” he finished. “I mean, who’d steal from the Battle God’s temple?”
“The same thieves who’d steal from the Healer God’s temple,” his thoughts supplied.
The tingle in the back of his mind grew more intense.
“We wouldn‘t,” he thought back absently, then laughed. “Especially not tonight; we’d never get away during Havo’s Dance, would we? And besides, we didn’t steal from the Healer God’s temple; we stole in front of the Healer God’s temple. There’s a big difference.”
A thread of amusement at this practical irreverence trickled through his mind before Her presence directed his gaze toward a small, open door in the far wall. Warm lamplight spilled across the floor and he could smell plants and incense. And food. Spa
r was already heading that way and Brax hurried after him. If there was anyone inside, they were probably the ones who were supposed to meet them, but it didn’t hurt to be cautious. Catching the younger boy by the jacket, he jerked him behind him before peering through the door. The room was empty of people. Surprised, Brax allowed Spar to duck under his arm. He was sure they were supposed to meet someone before now. Shaking his head, he followed Spar inside.
To the south, in the temple’s plant-filled infirmary atrium, Yashar leaned against the gold-tiled central pillar and frowned at Kemal. His arkados had been pacing the length of the room like a caged tiger, Jaq tight on his heels, for the better part of an hour and the constant slap of sandals and tick of toenails on the marble floor was starting to annoy him.
“Will you please stop doing that and sit down?” he asked bluntly. “Samlin says you’re supposed to rest.”
Taking him by the shoulders, he forced the other man onto a long, velvet divan. “Jaq, sit on his feet. Good dog.
“Now, do you want to be discharged in time for supper or do you want to take broth and unsweetened yogurt for yet another meal?” he growled at him.
Kemal shot the older man a sour expression, but leaned back pointedly.
“Thank you.”
Kemal didn’t bother to respond.
He’d awakened remarkably fit and energized after a long, drugged night’s sleep, and although the cuts and scratches he’d taken during the ritual felt tight and itchy, he himself felt fine. He’d been ready to return to duty at once, but Samlin, the temple’s chief physician of Usara, had refused to allow it. He’d swept in early that morning, fussed over the salve and bandages his delinkon had applied, promised to return and discharge Kemal that afternoon, then vanished. As the sun had made its slow journey westward, there’d been no sign of him.