The Silver Lake

by Fiona Patton

  The small figurine gleamed in the dim light as Illan set it down on the southernmost point of Gol-Beyaz. Spar was unique. Most seers and oracles navigated the realm of prophecy from a passive position, interpreting the flow of imagery and emotions through the reactions of their minds and bodies, reactions very different from those of the prophetically blind. A very rare few, like Illan himself and even the boy Graize—should he not spiral down into gibbering madness—could use their abilities to touch the minds of other seers; in Illan’s case, with actual words. An even smaller number could interact with the realm of prophecy itself, imposing their will upon the threads and streams of possibility. These few, like Spar, could be a powerfully dangerous force in the world if not properly controlled.

  And Spar would be controlled, trained, and aimed in the direction of Illan’s choosing. The boy’s painfully transparent denial that he needed any training at all and the fact that Illan wasn’t the only one to realize his potential made the challenge that much sweeter. He loved a contest of wills, especially against the overconfident God of Prophecy and His so-called Oracles. But, he cautioned himself, the rot had to settle in there as well.

  The sound of a booted foot striking the tower’s uneven nineteenth step interrupted his reverie and a moment later, his sergeant-at-arms, Vyns Ysav, entered the tower room. Some twenty years older than the prince, he’d served as his personal servant and bodyguard since before Illan could walk. He kept his tongue in his head and his ear to the ground and was a useful sounding board for those times when the prophetic streams became more muddied than simple ruminations could clear. Illan found him as valuable a tool as his atlas table. As the older man crossed to the center of the room, he turned his head to accept his salute, waiting for the message he was already aware of.

  “A mounted company approaches along the coastal road, My Lord,” the sergeant announced.

  “Yes. It’s Dagn,” Illan answered, allowing a note of impatience to creep into his voice at the thought of his eldest sister. “With questions from our ducal brother, Bryv.” Lifting a crowned figure from the center of Volinsk, he held it up to the light. “He wants to know if this season’s fighting against Rostov will be successful.”

  Vyns tilted his head to one side. “Will it, sir?”

  “No more than last season’s.”Taking the crowned figure and placing it among a host of mounted knights near the Rostov border, Illan shrugged. “However, since the fighting actually serves a better purpose than simply grinding Cousin Halv’s armies into dust, it will do for now. As long as it’s not too costly,” he added to cut off Vyns’ satisfied smile. “Which it’s becoming.”

  “Dangerously so, sir?”

  Illan’s eyes misted in concentration. “Not quite yet,” he answered after a moment’s reflection. “Next season, if the harvest is poor, they may have to be reined in a little.” Clearing his eyes with a brief shake of his head, he smiled coldly. “But for now, Dagn and Bryv are free to squander our resources as they see fit.”

  The sergeant frowned. “That isn’t what you’re planning to tell Her Grace, is it, sir?”

  Illan sighed. “To some extent I plan to tell Her Grace the truth, or at least as much of it as she’s willing to hear.” Lifting the delicately carved figure of a south sea fighting ship, he studied the tiny royal flag on its bow with a dreamy smile. “Don’t become fretful, Vyns,” he assured the other man after a moment. “I’ll not say anything too impolitic today; it’s not yet time for that, and when it is, you’ll have plenty of warning.” He set the ship down facing the island of Thasos to the south of Gol-Beyaz. “But it hardly matters,” he continued. “Unless I see a crushing defeat for Volinsk—or possibly his own death—Bryv won’t change his plans. The campaign against Rostov is as comfortable and familiar as an old pair of boots. It will take a very special pair of new boots to dislodge it.”

  “And the new pair of boots is in Anavatan, sir?”

  “The new pair is Anavatan, Vyns. But it’s important that neither the cobbler nor the buyer realizes that, lest the latter get too greedy and force the former to close up shop.”

  Vyns gave him a confused look and, with a sigh, Illan lifted two gold-and-copper-crowned figures, bringing them face-to-face with each other. “As long as Volinsk and Rostov struggle over the same unarable stretch of steppe between them, the Anavatanon with their God-strengthened, self-righteous warrior-priests will believe we represent no immediate threat and will remain open for business with no added security on the door—on the passage through to the northern sea,” he explained patiently. “And, as long as both Volinsk and Rostov believe the other is defeatable, neither will reach for Anavatan prematurely.”

  And belief was everything, wasn’t it?

  Vyns nodded. “I see now, sir.”

  “Good.” Setting the figures back into place, Illan lifted two medium-sized Volinski fighting ships and, after a moment’s reflection, set them down in the center of the sea. Then, with a nod, he returned his gaze to the window, his expression already drawing inward. “The company will be here within the hour,” he said in a distant voice. “Have the kitchen lay out a meal and breach a cask of wine. They won’t be staying the night, so you needn’t prepare rooms. Say nothing of our conversation or my inclination. If Dagn should ask, inform her that I’ve been sequestered in my tower room all week, anticipating her arrival; that’s all you know.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Two hours later, Princess Dagn Vanyiviz Volinsk stood by the fire, turning a glass of heavy red wine between finger and thumb while rivulets of water ran down her boots to pool on the flagstone floor. Four years older than lllan, she was similar in height and build, but with paler hair and eyes and a confident intensity that stood out in marked contrast to his carefully designed air of aesthetic disinterest. They’d once been close, but the war and the increasing demands of his prophetic sight had sent them to opposite sides of the country: Dagn to the fighting in the west, and Illan to the calm, focusing isolation of Cvet Tower. Both social and extroverted, Dagn had never understood her brother’s need for solitude and had often accused him of removing himself from court on purpose so that Bryv was forced to seek his council like a petitioner.

  And she was most probably right.

  Now, she caught him in an impatient stare.

  “Will one big push prevail against Rostov this season ?” she demanded with characteristic bluntness. Standing in his usual place by the window, Illan made a show of rubbing two fingers along the bridge of his nose in mock resignation. One big push had never finished either of them, but both sides always believed it would.

  “No,” he replied just as bluntly.

  “Why not?”

  “Because Rostov’s no less powerful than they were last season and now they’re drawing allies from the west.”

  “So? We’re drawing allies from the east.”

  “Then our individual strengths will be equally balanced. Again.”

  Dagn’s blue eyes glittered in the firelight.

  “So what will tip this balance to our favor? What will finish Rostov?”

  He made a show of considering the question seriously, but inside he was bored.

  What will finish Rostov?

  Who cares?

  He was careful to keep any sign of this opinion from showing on his face. Only the riches of Anavatan could tip any form of balance in anyone’s favor, but to obtain them, they had to be subtle and they had to be patient.

  His family were not known for either.

  “We could assassinate Cousin Halv,” he replied, more as a stalling technique than an actual suggestion, but Dagn snickered.

  “It’s been tried,” she answered, her own features relaxing slightly. “He has as many swords and seers protecting him as Bryv does.” She paused. “Why? Have you seen something that might suggest it would be more successful this time?”

  He sighed, weary of this line of questioning already; if he’d seen it, he would have said so at the beginning of
their conversation. He considered the possibilities in saying yes, but then discarded the idea. Lying about prophecy carried its own weight of complications and—as tempting as it was—it actually muddied true visioning and undermined a seer’s credibility.

  “No,” he replied, a note of testiness creeping into his voice. “So, short of a plague or a famine—which I have not seen, so don’t even bother to ask—there’s nothing to suggest that this year’s campaign will be any different from last year’s.”

  “So, basically, you’ve got nothing of importance to say to me at all.”

  “Basically, that’s correct.”

  “Then what good are you?”

  Illan smiled tightly. “In the short term, none. In the long term, perhaps a great deal.”

  “Oh, yes, I’ve forgotten. Your plots against Anavatan.”

  He was surprised by the sneer in her voice.

  “You don’t feel the shining city is a worthy prize?” he asked.

  She grimaced in exasperation. “I think it’s a risky and expensive dream that rears its ugly head above. us once every few generations or so like a family malady.”

  “Unlike Rostov, of course.”

  “Don’t go down that path again, Illan,” she warned. “Rostov is a dangerous foe that must be defeated before we can turn any military attention elsewhere.”

  “I agree.”

  She frowned at him. “Then why do you keep this conquest of Anavatan alive in Bryv’s mind?” she demanded, her voice dark with suspicion.

  “Because it’s a risky and expensive dream now. But it’s a reachable reality in the future—in the near future. I have seen that.”

  “But not this season?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they’re still too strong.”

  “You’ve told Bryv this?”

  “His military advisers have told him this. You may tell him, however, that the Yuruk of the western plains are nurturing a new leader which could unite the wild lands to our advantage.”

  “Could?”

  He shrugged. “When you sow a field of grain in the spring, you can only hope that it will yield a good harvest in the fall. It could, and the best you can optimistically say is that it should, but there are always variables.”

  “Like a plague or a famine?” Her tone was sarcastic, but her voice had lost its suspicious edge and he smiled.

  “Or a flood, or a drought, or even something as simple as a clash of personalities. We’ll know before the year is out. The Yuruk’s new prophet is planning a small foray against the village of Yildiz-Koy to test his leadership skills. If all goes smoothly, in a year or two the Yuruk will be strong enough to attack the western shores of Gol-Beyaz in force while the Petchans attack the south and we attack the north.”

  “And if all doesn’t go smoothly?”

  “I have another field in reserve that could yield a similar harvest if properly sowed.”

  “Which is?”

  “Too early to say. Its crop might blight; it’s still a very young field.”

  Dagn shook her head, impatient with the agricultural analogy. “So your counsel is to wait, then?”

  He shrugged. “Bryv could send some privateers to harass the Anavatanon merchant ships in the Deniz-Siyah if that suits him better. Two would be sufficient, I’d think. Their navy will be expecting something like that, and it won’t raise suspicions of a plot elsewhere. They’ll send a few extra ships to patrol the shipping lanes, but not too many due to this new threat brewing in the south.”

  She chuckled at his sarcastic tone. “Ah, yes, I’ve forgotten, those strange, unidentified ships hovering off the coast.”

  “Yes.”

  “Give my regards to Memnos when you write to him next. Tell him that the duc of Volinsk is ready to commit troops to his cause at a moment’s notice. Bryv’s very words.”

  “I shall.”

  Sipping at her wine, she smiled nostalgically. “Do you remember the summer we spent sailing with him off the island of Skiros?”

  “I do.”

  “It was so warm and peaceful then. There was nothing to worry about, no wars, no intrigue.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “I do, sometimes.” She chuckled. “You were nothing more than a self-centered brat back then.”

  “And you were nothing more than a bossy know-it-all. And Bryv?”

  “Bryv.” Dagn’s expression grew sad. “Bryv laughed more.”

  “So did you.”

  She shrugged. “I suppose.

  An almost comfortable silence fell between them and Illan glanced over.

  “Will you be spending the night?” he asked, as surprised by the warmth in his own tone as he was by the question he already knew the answer to. He could see her considering it, remembering closer times when they were younger, wondering if those times might be recreated, their friendship rebuilt, by one long, quiet talk before the fire. For a moment he thought he might have seen it wrong, and then she shook her head with an expression of genuine disappointment and the faint prophetic stream that had warmed his thoughts for just a moment faded.

  “No, I have to get back.”

  “Another time, then.”

  “Perhaps.”

  An hour later, watching her lead the envoy back along the coastal road, he was again surprised to find that he shared her disappointment.

  “Another time, then.”

  “Perhaps.”

  But unlikely.

  He turned back to the atlas table. Another time, perhaps, but not now; there was still too much to do now. Something portentous was happening and he needed all his concentration to detect its most vulnerable aspect. Spar was the key. Lifting the boy’s figurine to eye level, he stared at it until the room slowly faded from his sight, then sent his mind speeding south toward Anahtar-Hisar. The tall granite tower standing high above the bright blue waters of the southern sea filled his vision, then began to waver precariously as another image rose up beneath it.

  Another time, then.

  He frowned.

  Perhaps.

  With an impatient sigh, he returned Spar to the table and lifted the well-worn figure of his sister from its permanent position amidst the crowded border garrisons, searching for some subtle, prophetic warning that would keep their conversation in the foreground but, after finding only regret for lost opportunity, firmly set it back in place. There was still too much to do now, he repeated. His relationship with Dagn could wait. They had time. They always had time.

  Lifting Spar once again, he bore down, calling up the image of Anavatan’s southernmost stronghold and its newest charge. His vision steadied and Spar came into focus, crouched like a tiny gargoyle on the turreted roof of Anahtar-Hisar, his blue-eyed gaze as faraway as Illan’s own. The Volinski seer nodded to himself. Most latent prophets were solitary by nature, unconsciously seeking out the high and lonely places where their abilities could grow without the distractions of everyday life swirling about and cluttering up their thoughts. When they were ready to see, their minds took flight like birds leaving the nest. And Spar’s mind was almost ready; he could feel it from here. They’d been interacting carefully over the last two weeks and Illan could feel the link between them growing stronger and more solid with each passing day. It only needed the smallest—most enjoyable, he allowed—kick in the tail feathers now to make Spar’s abilities take wing. Holding the boy’s figurine up to eye level, Illan reached out to deliver it.

  “Shield arm up! Right leg back to support the body! Now, sword arm out, thrust and back! Always pull back, ready for your next attack!”

  Crouched on the roof above the private officers’ training yard, Spar watched as Yashar went over the first strike position with Brax for the twentieth time. They’d been at it most of the morning and Spar could feel the older boy’s frustration growing.

  “Again! And again! Slowly, Brax, slowly!”

  “I am going slowly!”

  “Go mo
re slowly!”

  “If I go any more slowly, I’ll fall over!”

  “Then fall over! You have to learn control; control always comes before power and always, always, before speed!”

  From the tense set of his shoulders, Spar could see that Yashar’s patience was wearing as thin as Brax’s. One of them was going to- blow any minute, he thought with a snort, although they’d lasted a lot longer than he’d expected.

  And that was because of Brax.

  They’d been at the southernmost tower of Anahtar-Hisar for twenty-two days and, true to their word, Kemal and Yashar had separated the two of them from the rest of the garrison delinkon, concentrating on individual rather than on unit training. The older boy had responded with the same level of fevered intensity coupled with agitated impatience he’d shown at the temple in Anavatan, but despite this, Spar could see a marked difference in his demeanor: he was calmer and more willing to listen—whatever Yashar might think—held himself with greater confidence, and seemed much less likely to throw his shield across the courtyard in frustration.

  “This is stupid! No one’s ever gonna come at me this slowly!”

  All right, maybe only a little less likely, Spar amended.

  “I think we should take a break.”

  Striding forward, Kemal held out a bulging waterskin and, bristling with indignant disinterest, Brax very carefully set his sword and shield to one side before accepting it. As he followed the two men into the shade of a nearby potted palm tree, only Spar could see the effort it took him to keep from simply falling over. Estavia didn’t seem to be helping him as much as Brax had said She would. And again, only Spar seemed to notice this.