The Silver Lake

by Fiona Patton

  The older boy himself had been wildly excited when he’d finally returned to bed that night at Serin-Koy, blurting out all that had happened in a barely contained jumble of words that had made no more sense to Spar then than it did now.

  “She came to me. She talked to me. She said She would make me Her Champion.”

  “How?”

  “By giving me what She gave to Kaptin Haldin.”

  “Which was?”

  “Everything.”

  He never had explained what that everything was supposed to be—and Spar wasn’t even sure he could—whenever he talked about that night, he got such a dazed and awestruck expression on his face that he looked as if someone had hit him over the head with a barge pole.

  A chuckle sounding deep within his mind interrupted this cynical observation and his expression hardened. The tower’s voice in his head had grown increasingly pushy in the last few weeks, interfering with his thoughts and offering up wholly unwelcome advice on his actions while still refusing to identify itself. It was really starting to piss him off. Drumming his fingers against his knife handle, he waited for it to make some further annoying observation but, after a few moments of silence, he cautiously returned to his earlier line of thought.

  Brax obviously believed the Battle God had gifted him with special powers—although strength, endurance, flexibility, patience, and wisdom didn’t seem to be on the list—but what disturbed Spar the most was that he was just as vague on what Estavia wanted in return as he was about what these great powers were supposed to be. Nothing came free, especially when it came from Gods. Cindar had hammered that into their heads all their lives; Brax had taken less than a month to forget it.

  “She probably wants his life,” the tower voice now sniffed. “Or more likely, his death. That’s typical of the Gods as you know.”

  “Who asked you?” Spar snarled back, unable to resist rising to the bait.

  “No one. I was simply observing that Gods are never satisfied with worship alone. They want it all, and that usually consists of blood, pain, and death.”

  “Horse shit.”

  “Are you telling me you don’t believe that?”

  Turning his face toward the brisk, salt-encrusted breeze blowing in from the sea, Spar snorted. “I’m not telling you anything,” he replied tersely.

  “You don’t have to; your emotions speak it plainly enough. You don’t put your trust in Gods any more than I do.”

  “And I don’t put my trust in mysterious, free-floating voices either, so bugger off.”

  “As you like, but don’t you want to know what those special powers were that Estavia gifted Kaptin Haldin with so many years ago?”

  “And I suppose you can tell me?”

  “I can.”

  “And it’s gonna cost... what?”

  “Nothing too expensive; perhaps only conversation.”

  “Forget it. I can find out on my own.”

  “How? In that pathetic excuse for a library?”

  “It’s not that bad.”

  “Four volumes? One thin, little, out-of-date tome on southern growing practices, another outlining Ystazia’s festive rituals, and two journals written by almost illiterate tower commanders? Please.”

  “They weren’t ill ... whatever you said.”

  “Of course they were; they could barely spell their own names.”

  “So what? They were warriors; they didn’t need to learn any more than they already knew.”

  “And obviously didn’t. Is that what you want out of life as well?”

  “None of your business.”

  “If not mine, then whose? Your new abayon?”

  Ignoring the sarcasm in the voice’s tone, Spar turned his attention, almost unwillingly, back to the courtyard. Kemal was holding his sword out at arm’s length, explaining something to Brax. As he watched, the older boy lifted his own sword, mirroring the movement with an intense expression. As Yashar nodded his encouragement, Spar smiled.

  “How nice,” the voice sneered. “He’s learned how to hold it properly. One move down and only a thousand more to go before he’s thrown, all too unready, into battle. Is that what true abayon do for their delon?”

  “Shut up.”

  Lying on the ground beneath the rooftop, Jaq raised his head and whined. The dog didn’t like it when Spar came up here and not only because he couldn’t follow. With an inward glare, Spar scrambled farther up the roof, hopefully out of the animal’s earshot. The movement caused the small delos-drum at his side to vibrate gently and he covered it quickly with his hand to quiet it.

  Yashar had given him the traditional instrument of the youngest delinkon before they’d left Anavatan. Usually he kept it with his belongings, but in the last day or two he’d taken to carrying it about, tied to his belt by its short leather strap. Yashar had been pleased to see it and, for some reason, that made Spar feel warm inside. Now, as the sounds of the village militia training beyond the tower—adults and delinkon moving to the constant thump of the same drums—filtered up to him, he ran his fingers along the soft, faded vellum, squinting down at the markings along the body.

  “That’s the symbol for Caliskan-Koy where I was born,” Yashar had told him, pointing to the outline of a small boat. “The finest ships on Gol-Beyaz are built there. That there’s my father’s mark,” a grain flail. “It was his drum first, you see—and this mark’s mine,” a short sword standing upright beside a cypress tree. “If you find it useful, you might set your own mark on it before you pass it on to one of your own delon some day.”

  Spar had been more pleased then he’d wanted to admit, but somehow the older man had sensed it in the short duck of his head and had smiled at him.

  “Yes, yes, yes, he gave you a drum just like a real abayos would,” the voice allowed impatiently. “But shouldn’t a real abayos also give his delon every chance to realize their full potential when he isn’t passing down terribly valuable family heirlooms? I mean, be honest, how much time have either of those two spent teaching you something actually useful, like how to read and write for instance? ”

  “I know how to read and write,” Spar shot back. “A little,” he added grudgingly when the voice scoffed at him.

  “Exactly,” it agreed. “A little. You’ll need a lot more than that if you’re going to make anything at all of your life.”

  Spar just shrugged, but inside he had to admit—if only silently—that he knew neither Yashar nor Kemal cared much about reading and writing; he’d had to find the library on his own, and Brax had yet to pick up a scroll, never mind an actual book. Spar had a suspicion that their new abayon had forgotten that part of their young Champion’s training altogether, and the older boy obviously had no intention of reminding them.

  “So, why don’t you remind them?”

  “Why should I? If Brax doesn’t want to read and write, that’s his business.”

  “And you’re willing to remain ignorant as well, are you? I thought you might have more ambition.”

  “Piss off.”

  Below, Jaq let out a yip.

  “I don’t need any more ambition,” Spar snapped inwardly, feeling his temper rising. “I’m safe, I’m fed, and I’ve got lots of skills I can work just fine.” Glancing up, he watched an immature eagle land on the tower ridge-pole, a hamsi fish dangling from its beak and, pulling his knife, flipped the thin handle through his fingers and around the back of his hand, catching it before it came close to falling. He cocked his arm.

  “Very physically dexterous,” the voice interrupted in a patronizing tone. “But if you throw it, you might lose both bird and knife.”

  “I might and I might not.”

  “With proper mental training, you’d know.”

  “And I suppose you can give me it?”

  “I can.”

  “For what?”

  “For nothing. Abayon don’t charge their delinkon.”

  “I’m not your delinkos.”

  “No, you’re not
.” The voice was getting definitely snippy now, and Spar sneered at it. “Because if you were,” it continued, ignoring his response, “you wouldn‘t be wasting your time reading books on Ystazia’s equinox tea ceremonies and learning how to gut your enemies—and your birds—you’d be learning how to wield your considerably powerful, although deeply latent, mental abilities before they wither on the vine for lack of use.”

  “They do have seers here, you know,” Spar retorted, his own tone dripping with disdain, as he resheathed his knife. “Don’t you think they’d have said something if I really had all these great latent abilities?”

  “What, Sable Company?” Now it was the voice’s turn to sneer. “You can’t be serious. Not one of them could find their arse on a sunny day. Besides,” it continued in a imore mollifying tone, “you have the strongest natural shields I’ve ever felt—nearly as powerful as my own—I doubt that lot could even see you to look at you. No, use your head, Delin; if they were really any good, they’d be sworn to Incasa, wouldn’t they?”

  “Whatever.” Despite the voice’s very good point, Spar was getting bored with the argument. “It all comes down to one thing,” he said. “The Warriors of Estavia took us in, they fed us, and they clothed us. You didn‘t, so they have the right to direct our training and you don’t.”

  “And far be it for me to cast aspersions on such a noble enterprise as expecting two hungry delon to offer up their lives in exchange for temporary food and shelter,” the voice sniffed, refusing to back down, “but the least they could do is ensure that they direct that training properly. ”

  “They are.”

  “So, you’ll be ready for battle when it’s thrust upon you, will you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Willing and able to die for Estavia? Such confidence. Is that why you’re hiding up here instead of taking your turn with the sword down there? Don’t tell me you think She’s granted you special powers as well?”

  “I’m not hiding; I’m watching Brax. He needs to be ready before me.”

  “Too true. Do you think he will be?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really? By this summer?”

  “What?”

  “The Yuruk are planning an attack this summer, and when they do, the Warriors of Estavia will be called upon to fight. Your precious abayon will be sent and you’ll both go with them.”

  “So what? We won’t be in the battle. Delinkon never are. ”

  “They will be if the Warriors are slaughtered and the village overrun.”

  Spar frowned, knowing the voice had dropped the word village in as bait.

  “What village?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Whatever village. ”

  Spar snorted, convinced now that the voice was just lying to get a rise out of him. “It won’t happen.”

  “Won’t it?”

  “Will it?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Drop dead.”

  The voice chuckled. “I will tell you this much: Brax, at the very least will be drawn into danger. He’s Estavia’s new Champion, and, in case you’ve forgotten, She’s not the God of daisies and love poetry. She’ll call him and he’ll go. He’ll either live or he’ll die. You could know which it will be, and knowing, you could do something about it, unless of course, being fed, clothed, and safe really is all you care about. ”

  “Spar?”

  About to deliver a scathing retort, Spar started at the sound of his name. Glancing over the edge of the roof, he saw Kemal gesturing at him.

  i“Come down please. Jaq’s whining is drowning out the lesson.”

  Spar nodded. “Thanks a lot,” he growled as he began to make his way toward one of the small, tower windows. “You made him notice me.”

  “Your thrashing about made him notice you. You have to learn to control your body when you use your mind.”

  “Yeah? Well, control this. GET STIFFED.”

  The voice chuckled. “As I said, considerable, although deeply latent, mental abilities. I wish you had the time to see if they develop naturally, I really do, but you havent, so I’m going to help you access them whether you want to or not. ”

  “Don’t do me any favors.”

  The responding icy laughter which echoed through his mind made the hair on the back of Spar’s neck rise.

  “Oh, believe me, Delin,” the voice replied. “I’m not.”

  We have a new enemy.

  “Not now.”

  With an impatient shake of his head, Graize waved the lights away. They’d grown stronger over the last two weeks, coming closer to the integrated Godling he knew they would one day become. Weaving in and out of his thoughts, using his experiences to build a rudimentary understanding of the world, they whispered newly audible words in his head with an increasingly annoying sibilant hiss, words he had no interest in. They’d already made him aware of the northern sorcerer’s ambition and increased interest and Graize had patiently explained his own lack of concern. Whatever the foreign seer now knew, or thought he knew, was of no importance at the moment.

  He told the lights so and, buzzing hungrily, they reluctantly withdrew, merging with the ever present spirits swirling just out of reach as Graize returned his attention to the task at hand.

  Seated on one of the kazakin’s more docile mounts, he’d accompanied Timur and Danjel out onto the plains that morning to taste the signs on the winds of an approaching thunderstorm. Unwilling to take his abilities at face value, the ancient wyrdin had been teaching him to see the spirit world as the Yuruk saw it, as simply one aspect of the world as a whole, and the spirits themselves as no more than the wild sheep that dotted the faraway mountainsides, as creatures to be ignored or domesticated as he saw fit.

  Licking his lips, Graize stared out at the vast horizon of power and potential that shimmered all around him like a silvery sea. Resisting the urge to draw all that power to him, he stroked the smooth length of the new bow Danjel had gifted him with before bending an ear to Timur who had been speaking to him for the last few moments without a response.

  “Hm?”

  “I said, what do you see, Wyrdin-Delin?” Timur repeated patiently. Like Danjel, the old wyrdin was bi-gender although, unlike Danjel, Timur preferred to remain physically ambiguous, to more easily converse with the spirit world.

  Graize licked his lips, catching up a tiny, imprudent spirit with the tip of his tongue. “Power,” he whispered.

  “And?”

  He frowned. “What else is there?”

  “Life.”

  “It’s the same thing.”

  “Not necessarily,” Timur retorted, shaking one thin and gnarled finger at him. “Life is the smooth, rhythmic ebb and flow of all things, great and small. Power is simply life’s fuel.” A wave of one hand took in the entire landscape around them. “Every event in life’s rhythm sets up its own pattern of ripples, like insects touching the surface of a still pool of water. If you know how to look, how to listen, how to ask, you can learn many things.” Timur leaned forward, the bells on the old wyrdin’s pony chiming softly. “Such as, we’re expecting the banners of the first kazakin of the Khes-Yuruk from the west. Are they near? Ask the ground beneath your feet; ask the wind on your face and the hills it’s traveled over.” One arm swept up. “Ask the sky.”

  Graize stared out at the distant horizon with a frown. Some of what he’d told Danjel that first day had been the truth, some more bravado than certainty. With the lights and spirits as his guide, he could sense an army coming, find an enemy’s weak spot, and know when to attack it, but only if they knew. The lights were more interested in their own internal growth than the external world these days and spirits, anxious about the future, crowded so close to his body that all they could tell him was the beating of his own heart. Likewise, the ground, the wind, the hills, and the sky showed him nothing more than the vast expanse of power spread out for the taking. It made him hungry; it made the lights hungry; hungry like the spirits were hungry, desperately and
angrily. He narrowed his eyes. It always came down to hunger, didn’t it? he thought, hunger and need.

  “Ask the ground beneath your feet.”

  Tipping his head to one side, he made a pretense of studying the flattened grasses under his pony’s hooves while Timur and Danjel waited either patiently or impatiently as their nature dictated.

  Nature.

  Hunger.

  Need.

  In the shining city he’d needed money to satisfy his hunger, other people’s money. To get it, he’d needed the game. He was good at the game. Here he needed more, here he needed the Yuruk. But to get them, he still needed the game. Yet what was the game here?

  Nature.

  Reaching into the hide bag at his belt, he gripped the dead stag beetle at the bottom, rubbing at the cracked and jagged carapace to collect his thoughts. The Yuruk believed he was a prophet. To be one, he had to act like one—whether or not he really was one was again unimportant—but it helped if he could really do the things they expected him to do, and the spirits and lights could only tell him so much. The Wyrdin-Yuruk used the spirits in their augury as he did, but they also studied the natural signs all around them; signs they’d expect him to know as well, signs of the game.

  Graize had always been very good at the game.

  The tiny spirit he’d sucked up had tasted of rain, but that wasn’t enough.

  “sk the wind...”

  Closing his eyes, he raised his face to the breeze and felt ... something. The air was damp and chill. It smelled like the tiny spirit had tasted ... of rain.

  “... and the hills it’s traveled over.”

  Encouraged, he opened his eyes. Stretching before him, the tough meadow grasses undulated like a green sea, the thick, ribbed underside of each blade turned upward. Upward towards the rain, so the rain would be soon.

  “Ask the sky. ”

  The darkening clouds above his head stretched across the horizon, swollen with power and driven by the rising wind. The wind was from the west. The rain would come from the west. His eyes narrowed. But that hadn’t been Timur’s question, had it?