The Silver Lake

by Fiona Patton

  “But what about the Yuruk?”

  “As I said, it’s God-protected. Here.” Kemal took him by the shoulders and turned him slightly. “Stare into the sun, then look again.”

  His eyes dazzled by sunspots, Brax blinked. For just a moment, the air above the wall shimmered with a silvery-blue-and-purple light, rising nearly forty feet into the evening sky. “Maybe, but still ...” he argued, refusing to be convinced. “No wonder they keep trying to bash through it. That’s almost begging to be attacked.”

  “You think so?”

  “Well, how many times have they gone against Anavatan?”

  “Not many.”

  “And you don’t think it’s because of the thirty-foot-high stone walls?”

  “I rather thought it was because of the one thousand temple troops and the very well armed city garrisons.”

  “And besides,” Yashar interjected, “I thought you told us the spirits were beginning to worm their way through Anavatan’s walls despite their great size.”

  “They are.”

  “So, obviously, size is not as important as strength.”

  “I suppose. But still ...” Brax shook his head in disgust and even Spar looked bitterly disappointed.

  Kemal just laughed. “Come on; let’s go tell the barge-kaptin she can put in.”

  Frowning deeply, Brax stared indignantly at the wall one last time. “All I know is, I’d attack that, whatever might be protecting it,” he muttered. “I wouldn’t be able to help myself.”

  “Hm?”

  “Nothing.” When Kemal raised an eyebrow at him, he shrugged. “Really, I was just thinking out loud.”

  “A dangerous habit, that,” Yashar teased.

  “I know.”

  Once the barge came closer to shore, Brax reluctantly pulled his gaze from the wall and turned his attention to Serin-Koy, a neat little village of wood and plaster houses to the north of Orzin-Hisar. Barns and drying sheds followed the net-covered shoreline, dotted with fishing boats, and a large, walled paddock stood beside Orzin-Hisar to the south. A troop of militia were shooting arrows into a line of stationary targets in the center of the village while beyond, farmers and oxen were still hard at work plowing up the western fields for the High Spring planting while sheep and cattle grazed beside flocks of geese and chickens in the newly green fields farther on, despite the lengthening shadows. As they watched, two children and a large black dog carrying a ball in its mouth vaulted over a low place in the God-Wall where it met Orzin-Hisar. Jaq immediately began to bark. The children stared out at the water and then began to wave enthusiastically, which just increased his excitement.

  “All right, all right, go.” Kemal gave the dog a light shove and he flung himself into the water at once, reaching the sandy beach in a few powerful strokes. Spar looked apprehensive and Kemal laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry. They’re old friends,” he said as they watched the two dogs bound up to each other, tails wagging madly. Beyond them, the children set off for the houses at a dead run.

  “Bayard will have received our letter about Brax and Spar by now,” Yashar observed. “Five aspers says he makes the shore before we do.”

  Kemal just shook his head. “No bet.”

  “Who’s Bayard?” Brax asked.

  Kemal grimaced. “My oldest kardos.”

  “Kem’s the youngest,” Yashar added with a grin. “Bayard raised him after their abayon died of fever when he was four years old.”

  “And you don’t like him?” Brax asked, noting Kemal’s sour expression.

  His abayos shrugged. “Oh, I like him well enough, he’s just ...”

  “Loud?” Yashar suggested.

  “Loud will do.”

  In fact, half the village was waiting for them when they put in, but moved aside as a large bald and bearded man wearing a blacksmith’s leather apron, a dozen years older than Kemal, pushed forward eagerly. He clapped his youngest kardos on the back hard enough to stagger him.

  “Kemin-Delin!” he shouted, using the double diminutive that made the gathered villagers laugh and Kemal wince. “I wondered if we were going to see you this season, but when we spotted the company heading south, we thought we’d be disappointed. Yash!” He aimed a mock punch at the other man who took it against his forearm with a grin.

  Kemal shot Yashar a look. “So they didn’t stop, Bayard?” he asked.

  “No, I heard they put in at Kinor-Koy. That’s the birin-kaptin’s home, yes?”

  Yashar gave Kemal the look back. “That’s right.”

  Bayard turned suddenly. “So, these are my new kardelon?” he asked eagerly.

  Spar took a step back behind Brax. Without Jaq by his side he looked even smaller and more uncertain than when he’d walked through the temple gates. Brax just stared up at the man evenly as Kemal nodded.

  “Well, the younger one has Yashar’s eyes.” Bayard noted with a booming laugh. “But the older one has your stance, Kemin, all prickly and challenging. Come on.” He waved them toward the village before either Kemal or Brax could reply. “Your other kardon will want to see you, and meet them.”

  “How many more are there?” Brax asked as a look of panic crossed Spar’s face.

  “Dozens,” Bayard supplied happily from over his shoulder.

  “Seven altogether,” Kemal corrected, and the older man shrugged.

  “Only if you’re just counting actual kardon, dozens if you count the entire family. But really only five at the moment, I suppose. I mean six with Kemin home now. Zondarin left for Anavatan a few days before Havo’s Dance. She didn’t stop by to see you?”

  “I imagine she had duties pretty much at once.”

  “Point. Anyway, we’ll still have a full, welcoming house once they all come in from the fields,” Bayard continued as if the earlier subject had never been changed. “In fact, they should be on their way home any moment now.”

  “For supper?” Yashar hinted largely.

  Bayard laughed. “For supper,” he agreed. “So, Kemin, are you going to take a turn at the oven tonight?” he asked, grinning broadly as Yashar raised both hands in a gesture of mock horror. Kemal just smiled tightly.

  “I wouldn’t deprive my arkados of your cooking,” he responded. “He’d never let me forget it.”

  “True enough. All right, I’ll cook, you tend the fire. Come on.” Throwing one huge arm over Kemal’s shoulder, Bayard steered them toward the village. Spar and Brax trailed after them with equally apprehensive expressions while Yashar rubbed his hands together in anticipation of the evening’s meal.

  Bayard’s home, one of the few two-story dwellings in the village, was built just north of the main square, beside the forge. The inner courtyard, with its traditionally round herb and vegetable garden, was shielded from view by a comfortably tall stone wall and the house was ringed with unusually high but neatly tended flower boxes. Inside, the central room was as open and welcoming as their host, with an iron stove to the east sending out warm fingers of heat and a large loom dominating the west. A wide multicolored carpet covered the polished wooden floor and beautifully inlaid trucks lined the inset cupboarded walls which were decorated with iron lamp holders and various intricately forged weapons. Even the ceiling was an elaborate display of carved wood and brightly painted tiles.

  Brax and Spar stared about in hushed awe, unused to such openly displayed signs of wealth. A look of speculative greed flashed between them, but the moment was swiftly swept aside as people began pouring in, dumping a huge pile of sandals and boots by the door. Kardon, kuzon, delon, kardelon, and more crowded into the house, all greeting Kemal and Yashar as enthusiastically as Bayard, then pouncing on Brax and Spar. The younger boy quickly became overwhelmed by so much attention and, when Jaq finally pushed his way through a sea of legs to his side, he nearly fainted with relief. Catching the animal by the collar, he drew him into a far corner where he could watch Brax field question after question. Meanwhile, the supper preparations swirled about the r
oom like a storm, everyone talking and laughing at once, Bayard’s shouted instructions just adding to the chaos.

  “Kemin, Yash, you help Hadzin pull the divans into the center of the room!” he yelled, using the diminutive for nearly everyone, young and old alike. “Ekrubin, yes I see you hiding there, you and Covalin and, yes, Braxin, too, you can put the table together; Ekrubin, show him where we keep the sections! Arrianin, get the cushions, Hiesonin, the plates and cups—careful now, those are older than I am! Do we have enough dried fruit for everyone? No? All right, Aptullin you run over to your Teyia Badahir’s and ask for some. Come to think of it, invite her for dinner, too; she’ll be just coming off duty. And put your sandals on! It’s still too cold to run about barefoot,” he added as she made for the door. “Yes, Pausin, you can help me here.” He carefully placed a bowl of olives in the arms of a very small girl, then caught an older boy by the collar as he raced by “Hadirin, get the salt, then find wherever your abia put my cumin. Hello, Maydir, my love.” He paused for breath long enough to kiss a tall woman who’d entered with a skein of carpet threads over one arm, then carried on barking orders. Finally, nearly twenty people sat down to a table laden with bowls of steaming curry, pilaf, stuffed grape leaves, fruit, and flatbread, the children seated cross-legged on the floor between the adults’ feet, with half a dozen dogs and cats prowling about the perimeter waiting for scraps, and everyone still talking excitedly over everyone else.

  Passing Spar the bowl of olives, Kemal glanced about.

  “Where’s Chian?” he asked over the din.

  “At Usara-Cami with Evalaz,” Bayard answered. “They won’t be back until morning, but you and I can walk up there after supper if you like.”

  “I want to come, too,” Aptulli said at once.

  “Tomorrow if you finish up your curry. Slowly.”

  “How is he?” Kemal continued.

  The older man exchanged a glance with Maydir, then shrugged. “A bit better. He looks at you more often when you speak to him these days, and sometimes he even answers, more or less.”

  “And his legs?”

  “The same.”

  “Bayard’s built him a set of braces,” Maydir mentioned as she poured a cup of salap for an elderly woman bundled in shawls beside her. “They allow him to stand when he tends to the flower boxes, but he still can’t walk without aid.”

  “I help him with the flowers,” Ekrubi said loudly from between Bayard’s feet, and his aba took him by the ears and planted a loud kiss on the top of his head. “Yes, you do. It’s all that can really hold his attention for any length of time,” he added quietly over the boy’s head.

  “Chian is Kemal and Bayard’s kardos,” Yashar explained before Brax could ask. “He served as Serin-Koy’s leading battle-seer and priest of Estavia until he took a head wound in a Yuruk attack two seasons ago.”

  “Evalaz has been a great help to him,” Bayard continued. “We’ll lose that one to Usara some day soon, mark my words.”

  “Evalaz is Bayard and Maydir’s eldest delos,” Yashar supplied.

  Spar turned a wide-eyed look on Yashar’s face as Brax frowned. “But I thought families all served the same God,” the older boy said in confusion.

  “Most do. But if someone’s called to serve another, they go.”

  “And They don’t mind?”

  “Who?”

  “The Gods?”

  “Why would They mind?” Bayard chuckled. “The Gods steal followers from each other all the time, like one kardos steals bread from another—give that back, Ekrubin, yes, I did see you. Maydir follows Ystazia and Zondar, our kardos, is a gardener at Havo-Sarayi in Anavatan,” he continued. “But you don’t have to be a gardener to pray to the God of Seasonal Bounty, or a farmer, either, for that matter. Who wouldn’t give thanks to Havo for successful crops or fine fishing?”

  “Or pretty flowers,” Aptulli broke in.

  “Or pretty flowers,” he agreed, gazing at her fondly. “I myself serve Estavia in the village militia as a reservist,” he continued, “but I also pay homage to Ystazia and Oristo in my chosen trade.”

  “Both the Arts and Hearth Gods lay claim to black- smithery,” Yashar explained.

  “Teya makes the best iron lamps on Gol-Beyaz,” Arrian interrupted proudly.

  “So, it pays to stay on the good side of whatever God might help keep it that way,” Bayard noted. “And so far none of Them have demanded my exclusive worship, although I swore oaths to Estavia when I was sixteen.”

  “But I still can’t see why the Gods would let anyone do that?” Brax insisted.

  “Unwilling followers bring the Gods no strength,” Paus lisped in a singsong voice and Kemal nodded.

  “Remember, all that we are and all we do either strengthens or weakens the Gods we worship,” he said.

  “Oh. Right.” Catching up a piece of flatbread as the plate went by, Brax chewed on it with a grimace and Bayard laughed.

  “What’s the matter, Delin?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Really? You look like you’re eating a dung beetle instead of your new teya’s best bread.”

  Brax shook his head. “It’s not that, it’s just that I’d thought the Gods were ... I dunno ... stronger.”

  “Stronger?”

  “Maybe not stronger, just more ...”

  “Autonomous?” Yashar suggested.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Stand alone.”

  “I guess.”

  “No one’s stronger when they stand alone, Brax,” Kemal replied. “A dozen swords are always stronger than one.”

  “Sure, but the only one you can really trust is the one in your hand. If you start trusting too many others, you end up with one in your back.”

  “Estavia’s ghazi-priests would never do that,” Arrian said fiercely from between Yashar’s feet. “They swear blood oaths to die for each other.”

  “And what happens then? When you’re the last one standing and all your strength has died with them?” Brax retorted coldly as Spar indicated his agreement with a sharp nod of his head.

  “Are we talking about Gods or people here?” Yashar asked in amused confusion.

  “Either way. If you rely on others for strength, you’re dead if they turn or run or die.”

  “Your new delos is quite a philosopher,” Badahir noted, fixing Brax with a look that made him flush. “Be careful, Kemin, or you’ll lose him to Ystazia’s scholar-priests.”

  “Not much chance of that,” Yashar answered, thumping Spar’s back as he nearly choked on a cup of salap. “Estavia favors him. She likes the combative ones.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Bayard laughed. “She took the prick- liest member of our family to Her temple in Anavatan.”

  “The Gods were formed by the collective will of Their followers,” Kemal said to Brax, pointedly ignoring Bayard’s remark. “They rely on us as much as we rely on Them. We’re a family.”

  “And family sticks together,” Coval added. “Everybody working to keep the family strong.”

  “Even when someone leaves to go to a new family?” Brax prodded.

  “Especially then,” Bayard answered. “That’s how you build alliances, even among the Gods. Now, Covalin, fetch the asure, will you, I feel the need for something sweet after all this debate. You’ll have some, too, won’t you, Braxin?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Sparin-Delin?”

  He waited patiently until the younger boy nodded.

  “Good, now, Pausin, what did Nathu teach you today?”

  As the talk turned to less contentious subjects, Brax finished his bread with a reflective frown. Despite what Bayard and Kemal had said, there was something deeply wrong about Gods just letting Their followers walk away from Their worship, especially if They relied on those followers for strength. No one with power did that. Not willingly anyway.

  Passing Spar a bowl of asure, he stared at a small iron-and-silver statue of Estavia standing in Its wall nich
e by the stove. Something else to ask the God when he finally spoke to Her face to face, he thought. The questions were beginning to pile up.

  Beside him, Spar stifled a yawn. He’d said nothing throughout dinner but had accepted each offered plate, eating until his stomach grew distended and his eyelids heavy. Now he made no protest as Yashar lifted him in his arms and laid him by the stove on a sleeping pallet Ekrubi pulled out from a nearby cupboard for him. Jaq immediately lay down beside him, giving a contented sigh that ruffled the boy’s hair, and Spar wrapped his arms around his neck. Within minutes the two of them were sound asleep.

  Brax, however, stayed up for a long time, listening to the adults speculate on the season of fighting to come and the unknown threat growing to the south which had the temples so worried. But eventually even his eyes grew heavy and he allowed Kemal to help him into bed beside Spar. As people began to take their leave and the room grew quieter, he watched with a sleepy, half-lidded gaze as the older children laid out the pallets for the younger. Then, as Bayard, Kemal, and Yashar left for Usara-Cami, he fell asleep to the rhythmic sound of breathing all around him.

  Outside, the three men walked through the village in companionable silence, taking the hard-packed path past the forge and the drying huts to the small temple of healing standing within sight of Gol-Beyaz in the very center of an orchard of mature fruit trees. A bright and airy building, it had wide, latticed windows to the east and a semicircle of rose and rhododendron gardens for the patients to sit or walk through in good weather to the west. A six-foot statue of Usara, looking both calm and stem, stood sentinel before the lantern-lit entrance.

  Kemal set a small coin in its open palm before turning to Bayard.

  “How is he, really?” he asked.

  Bayard sighed. “Failing,” he said simply before leading the way through the ornately carved black walnut doors.

  A junior physician met them in the anteroom and led them down the hushed corridors to one of the smaller, brightly painted, private rooms. On a low stool, a heavyset youth sat reading to a tall, emaciated, black-haired man, well wrapped in woolen blankets and propped up on a wide pallet by a number of silken cushions.