The Silver Lake

by Fiona Patton

  “Cindar?”

  “Our abayos.”

  “And where is he?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “‘Sall right. We don’t need him now.”

  “Hm.” She glanced over at Kemal. “Will you be taking them to the infirmary next, Ghazi?” she asked pointedly.

  “What for?”

  Her eyes flashed. “To have their injuries tended to by a proper physician of Usara,” she replied, her tone suddenly chilly.

  “We’re fine,” Brax broke in at once as Spar took an involuntary step back. “We put some comfrey on the scratches this morning. They’re healing.”

  Kemal smiled. “Don’t you like the priests of Usara either, Brax?” he asked.

  “They’re expensive, and they’re usually fakes.”

  “Not these ones.”

  Brax shrugged. “We’re fine,” he repeated.

  “Well, would you mind if I had a quick look at your injuries, anyway?” Tanay asked. “I have a bit of extra salve I keep for minor kitchen mishaps—it will only go bad if I don’t use it up—and Spar seems to have at least one scratch that’s become inflamed.”

  Brax’s head snapped around and, mutely, the younger boy pushed up his left jacket sleeve to more fully expose the puffy red line that extended along his forearm.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Brax hissed.

  Spar just looked away, the answer obvious. There’d been no point in telling him when they’d had no more shine for salve.

  “You can doctor that?” Brax asked, returning his gaze to Tanay.

  “Yes, if it’s not too badly infected.”

  “All right, then, yes ... um, please look at it.”

  She turned. “Tyre, fetch me some warm water and that jar of salve from my counting room trunk.”

  The young man looked up from his next pot with a faintly annoyed expression, but dutifully laid down his brush.

  “The ceramic jar, Chamberlain?”

  “No, the porcelain jar.” Watching as Brax helped Spar out of his jacket, she narrowed her eyes at the torn and bloody state of the tunic underneath.

  “Did you get these from fighting?” she asked, her tone disapproving.

  “Spirit attack,” Brax supplied for him.

  “I see. You’re dealing with this, Kemal?”

  He nodded.

  “Good. Here, take this.” She handed Spar’s jacket to Tyre as he passed her the jar. “Brax, if you will remove yours as well ...”

  The older boy hesitated for a moment, then stripped off his own jacket, handing it to Tyre who tried not to stare at the long welts down his neck and arms.

  “Have it washed and see if it can be mended. Now ...” she indicated to Spar, who held his arm out shyly. Cleaning around the injury first, she then expertly cracked open the jar’s wax seal and Brax wrinkled his nose at the unfamiliar smell.

  “What is that?”

  “Frankincense.”

  His mouth dropped open as Spar immediately snatched his arm away.

  “We can’t pay for that,” Brax said bluntly.

  “Estavia’s people don’t pay for treatment in Her temple,” Kemal replied.

  “Still, we don’t need anything that expensive. Comfrey’ ll do fine.”

  “The better the salve the more effective it is and the less you need,” Tanay explained.

  “I don’t care. It’s too much. We can’t ... it’s too much.” Brax broke off, unable to voice his sudden fear as Spar began to shake his head.

  Tanay gave them both a thoughtful look. “Nothing comes without a price, does it, delon?” she said gently.

  Spar looked away as Brax chewed uncertainly on his lip. “No,” the older boy allowed finally.

  “And that price is usually high,” she added gently. “Even here.” She smiled reassuringly at them. “Look at me,” she offered, “I have to battle every day to keep an entire temple of mannerless, sword-wielding ruffians—and their dogs; Jaq, I’m warning you, get down now— from eating their way through my stores like a swarm of locusts.”

  Spar couldn’t help but smirk as Kemal looked insulted.

  “So, what do you get out of it?” Brax asked.

  “She gets to push them around all day,” Kemal answered.

  Tanay chuckled at his sour tone. “Well, that’s certainly a benefit,” she allowed, then her expression grew serious. “But I also get to take care of people, which is something I’ve always been good at.” She touched Brax’s cheek just below the angry red cut left by Drove’s knife. “Will you let me take care of you, Delin?”

  Brax’s face grew pinched. He made to say something flip, then just gave a quick shrug. “I guess so.”

  “And Spar?” She turned and he felt his face flush. “Will you let me take care of you also?”

  He stared into her eyes for a long moment, then nodded. After stepping cautiously out from behind Brax, he very slowly put his hand in hers.

  Now, he pushed up the silken sleeve of the overlarge nightshirt he’d been given and sniffed at the strange aroma beneath the bandage. Most of his injuries felt better, but this one was starting to throb again. She’d said it was infected and had suggested the infirmary again but had dropped the subject when he’d vehemently shook his head. He didn’t trust physicians any more than Brax did; he’d seen the effects of their work in the marketplaces and on the streets, and there was no proof that this temple’s people were any better. Most only cared about their fee and the ten percent extra that went to their God. But Tanay had smiled reassuringly at him as if sensing his thoughts, then told him to come back if it started bothering him and she’d take care of it herself.

  He nodded his head with a dreamy smile. It was bothering him, so he could go and see her and she would take care of it; she would take care of him.

  Very slowly, so as not to disturb Brax, he eased himself off the enormous and overly soft bed pallet. When his bare feet touched the thick woolen carpet, Jaq raised his head, and Spar put a finger to his lips. He’d never liked dogs much, they barked when you wanted them to be quiet and were quiet when you wanted them to bark, but Jaq was different. For some reason he felt safer with the great red animal beside him. He indicated that the dog should follow him with a jerk of his head and, surprisingly, Jaq dropped the sheep shank he’d been chewing on and stepped down from the pallet both carefully and silently. Even so, Spar peered at Brax to make sure the gentle motion hadn’t disturbed him.

  The older boy looked five years younger in the dim light, his dark olive skin pale with exhaustion, his face gaunt under its cap of heavy black hair, clean and shining for the first time in days. His expression was peaceful, even trusting; the Battle God’s protection had allowed him to fall into a truly deep sleep for the first time since Cindar’d been killed and for that Spar was grateful. She would look after him. With Jaq padding along behind him, he slipped silently through the door, the nightshirt bunched up in one fist to keep from tripping over it.

  Oil lamps attached to the walls at each junction cast just enough light to see by and, as he padded down the shadowy corridor—retracing their earlier walk from the kitchens—he breathed in the damp, scented air that spilled in from the latticed windows high above. The moonlight was obscured by the last of Havo’s Dance, but it smelled very late. There shouldn’t be anyone about at this hour. He’d be safe.

  Pausing to peer around the corner to the central corridor, he was distressed to see a single green-clad guard standing duty by the doors to the armory tower. He almost turned back, but Jaq thrust his head under his hand, and gathering up his courage, he took him by the collar. He was supposed to be here, he told himself firmly. Brax had said so. And he could go to Tanay to have his injury taken care of any time he needed to. She had said so. Taking a deep breath, he allowed Jaq to pull him into the corridor.

  The guard cast him a curious but nonthreatening glance as they approached.

  “Taking Jaq for his nightly pee, a
re you, Spar?” she asked.

  He nodded, masking his surprise that she knew his name. He guessed news traveled as fast inside a temple as out.

  “Well, don’t let him near the west wing conservatory,” she warned. “The head gardener say’s he’ll become a wall trophy if he marks another herb bed. You can let him out into any of the central courtyards. He’ll come back when he’s done.”

  Spar’s eyes widened.

  “Oh, you needn’t worry about Havo’s Dance,” she laughed. “For some reason the great scruffy mutt’s beloved of the Gods. All of them. He just weaves in and out of the rain drops.” Her voice hushed. “And those spirits you brought word of wouldn’t dare touch him either. Not here behind Estavia’s walls. He’ll be fine.”

  Nodding dubiously, Spar allowed Jaq to pull him past the guard. His shoulder muscles tensed as he turned his back on her, but they made the small wooden door he and Brax had entered through earlier without incident and he took a deep, calming breath as he pulled it open a crack. The dog slipped through and he risked one quick glance outside.

  The courtyard beyond the gallery was pitch-dark, but his imagination added the hint of sharp-clawed mist pooling about on the ground ready to rise up and attack them. He stood frozen, suddenly unable to breathe except in short, shallow breaths. The image of a great tower rose up in his mind, then Jaq glanced back with a faint whine and deliberately lifted his leg against the gallery wall. Both the mist and the tower disappeared, and Spar grinned in embarrassed relief. When the dog returned inside, looking smug, the two of them continued on in a lighter mood.

  The kitchens were quiet and still, empty of the bustling crowds of pot-banging cooks and scrubbers when they peered through the door a few moments later. For an instant he was afraid that Tanay had left as well, and then he saw her sitting by the brass counting room mangel, a steaming ceramic cup in one hand and her feet propped up on a cushion. When Jaq shoved his way through the door, she glanced over at the small bit of him she could see around the dog.

  “Well, you cleaned up well,” she noted. “Come in.”

  The salve was as soothing as before, her touch as gentle. Seated on the largest cutting board he’d ever seen, he glanced around the empty kitchens with a questioning look as she resealed the jar.

  “It’s past midnight, Delin,” she replied. “Everyone’s gone to their beds.” Dribbling a few drops of an aromatic oil he didn’t recognize into a bowl of warm water, she began to bathe the scratches across his cheeks and neck with a soft cloth. “Ordinarily I’d be gone myself, but tomorrow’s market day and it’s the only time I have to sit and plan the week in peace. Oh, yes, and there’s that meeting in midafternoon as well; I’ll need to bring some seed cakes,” she added to herself. “Jaq, sit!” Turning, she glared at the dog who’d been pacing around the table, whining, and pointed sternly at the mangel. He flopped down before it with a reproachful sigh and she chuckled. “He’s become very protective of you,” she noted.

  Spar gave a half nod, half shrug of studied indifference, but the faintest of smiles worked its way past his usual reticent expression, pleased that she’d noticed.

  “You can have him back in a moment,” she said over her shoulder. “There, that should just about do it.” Wringing out the cloth, she set it and the bowl aside. “Now, I’m going to finish my tea. If you’d like to join me, there’s a cup on the shelf there and the pot’s beside you.”

  Without hesitation, he nodded.

  The tea was warm, sweet, and smelled of cinnamon. It made him feel safe and sleepy. Seated where he could see both Tanay and the mangel, he leaned against Jaq’s flank, feet tucked into the bottom of the nightshirt, and stared fuzzily into the fire. The crackle of bright flames on walnut wood chips spoke louder than the whisper of oil lamps, but the words were the same; and just as unwelcome. Looking away, he found himself meeting Tanay’s warm, gray eyes.

  “You’re awfully young to be thinking so deeply,” she observed. “Age will bring about its share of decisions, you know; you don’t have to make any of them now.”

  He frowned. Beside him, Jaq flicked an ear at a stray fly and he watched it buzz its way to the cutting board, seeking some tiny crumb left behind by the kitchen staff. When he turned back, Tanay was still gazing at him and he waved one hand about him impatiently.

  “What of it?” she answered shrewdly. “You’re nine years old. No one holds a nine-year-old to a decision made by a fourteen-year-old.”

  His eyes widened and now it was her turn to give him an impatient look.

  “Kemal told me. Brax made his choice for his own reasons a full two years before the traditional age to do so. He may be old enough to know what that decision means, but you aren’t. And it hardly matters,” she added, ignoring his indignant expression. “Brax will be given,the opportunity to take his final vows at sixteen, regardless of what he may have sworn two nights ago, and until then, he’s free to change his mind without any argument from the Gods. And so are you.” Her gaze softened. “Try to stay young for as long as you can, Spar. You’ll never get another chance.”

  He rolled his eyes at her, but his cynical expression softened as he stood.

  “Come back and see me again if you like,” she offered as Jaq led him to the door.

  He nodded briefly.

  “Good night, Spar.”

  Pausing at the door, he glanced back at her, then smiled shyly. “Good night, Tanay.” Fingers entwined in Jaq’s collar, he slipped through the door, closing it quietly behind him.

  Across the city and beyond its walls, Havo’s Third and final Night of storms raged on, but the God of the Seasons was already returning to Gol-Beyaz, smacking at a few chimney pots for good measure, just as the spirits of the Berbat-Dunya were returning to their rocks and crevices on the plains. By morning there would be nothing more than a few broken roof tiles and fallen tree limbs to mark the beginning of High Spring.

  At Incasa-Sarayi, Bessic, the God of Prophecy’s new First Oracle, received a fleeting glimpse of a tower perched above a dark, storm-tossed sea, illuminated by a figure of shining light and power, before it was shrouded in mist once more. At Oristo-Sarayi, Senior Abayos-Priest Neclan rose early to prepare a platter of seed cakes for her chamberlains—she liked to keep a hand in the kitchens now and then—while, at Estavia-Sarayi, those who’d brought the God of Battle forth slept deeply, including the two boys who might make or break their future.

  Meanwhile, deep beneath the waters of Gol-Beyaz, the God of Prophecy tossed his silvery dice from hand to hand with a thoughtful expression, then closed His own snow-white eyes. The spirits had been pressed into a new form that could be molded to His design as they had been five times before and two of the candidates who would safeguard Its passage to maturity or to death had been safely tucked inside Estavia’s temple. All He had to do now was to wait patiently while the third nursed the new consciousness into a more physical awareness. Everything was in place.

  Far to the west, wrapped in a warm and heavy sheepskin beneath an escarpment on the plains, Graize lay surrounded by a multitude of cold, bright lights, sharing their dream of conquest and of death. To the north, a shadowy figure in a tall tower stood staring out at the waves of the Deniz-Siyah Sea and made his own plans while in the south, Panos of Amatus dreamed of a tall, brown-haired man, as interested in the vision of his broad shoulders and fine, narrow hips as she was in his prophetic abilities and political standing.

  6

  Abayon

  “BRAX. AWAKEN.” His eyes snapped open. Beside him, Spar and Jaq slept on undisturbed, and for a moment he stared up at the gold and silver mosaic-tiled ceiling with a disoriented frown. Then, as the God’s presence filled his mind, he smiled. With a contented yawn, he spent a moment enjoying the unfamiliar sensations of warmth and security before rising up on one elbow to glance around the room.

  The temple’s golden guest suite was even more opulent in daylight than it had been by candlelight. A wide latticed window dominated the east wa
ll; a large sculpted white marble altar, the west; the north and south were draped with brilliantly woven tapestries; and the lush woolen carpet was so bright in the morning sun it made his eyes water. Wondering idly if gold threads were worth more than gold tiles, he turned and poked both Spar and Jaq in the ribs. Boy and dog opened their eyes at once to glare at him resentfully and he grinned as he untangled himself from the nest of silken sheets and made for the window.

  “Well, this is sure different from yesterday morning,” he noted, taking in a deep breath of the spicy spring air. “A warm room and a full belly.” Fixing the younger boy with an expression of mock seriousness, he cocked his head to one side. “Do you still wanna leave?” he asked.

  Spar pointedly ignored him and, with a laugh, Brax crossed the suite to peer into the now empty bathing room. Last night it had blazed with light from half a dozen wall lamps, causing the inlaid metallic tiles to sparkle almost painfully around them. The porcelain tub, big enough to fit both of them, had been filled with hot, lavender-scented water and two of Oristo’s servers had been there to help them bathe. Brax had laughed aloud as he watched them try to comb through Spar’s tangled hair, but the constant tugging on his own head had nearly ruined the mood. However, when it was all over and they’d stood before the largest gilt-framed mirror they’d ever seen, gawking at the two clean, linen-clad strangers staring back at them, he’d felt suddenly as if they’d stumbled into some kind of street poet’s song.

  The morning sun lighting up the tiles in streaks of golden brilliance did little to change that.

  Rubbing his eyes, Brax moved on to the altar, running a wondering finger along the smooth surface of Estavia’s ebony-and-silver statue before staring down at the unfamiliar objects laid out before it. Then, following the pressure of Her presence, he reached for a stick of incense, lit it off a small lamp he was sure hadn’t been lit last night, and wrinkled his nose as the scent of lilac filtered up to him.