The Silver Lake

by Fiona Patton

  “And so he lives, then,” the voice agreed. “That’s very good. And it would seem that he also takes the field, but how? You told me that delinkon never do. What draws him into battle, Spar? And where will that battle take place?”

  The fire refused to answer. Snarling in frustration, Spar gathered all his strength and threw his mind out once again only to have it slam against a rock-hard barrier that suddenly leaped up before him.

  “What the crap is that?” he shouted.

  “The wall of power. The God of Prophecy’s trying to stop you. He believes that Brax will fail. He’s seen it and so he won’t help you. Or maybe He’s planned it all from the beginning: Cindar’s death, Drove‘s, Brax’s surrender to the will of the Gods. But the question is: will you surrender, too, little seer? Will you let His wall stand between you and your natural right to see the truth?”

  And the fire rose up again, filling his mind with the screams of the dying. He saw Yashar fall, and then Kemal, saw a thousand creatures of power and need pour into Gol-Beyaz on a rolling tide of mist and death, and saw a figure mounted on a snow-white pony—a figure he almost knew—appear out of the smoke. He saw Brax throw himself forward to meet him, and then the wall slammed up once again. Balling his hands into fists, Spar hammered against its glittering surface.

  “Break through it!” the voice urged.

  “I can‘t!”

  “Then go over it!”

  With a yell, Spar leaped into the air, fingers and toes scrabbling for purchase on the wall’s smooth surface. He hung there for a heartbeat, then fell back.

  “I can‘t! It’s too slippery!”

  “Is this how you plied your trade in the city, little thief?” the voice sneered. “No wonder you let your abayos die.”

  “Shut up!”

  “CLIMB!”

  Spar lunged forward once again and suddenly his hands gripped stone and he was clambering upward, faster and faster, the memories of a hundred such ascents driving him on.

  “Where will the battle be joined?” the voice demanded. “Reach the top, see the place, find the name!”

  The open sky loomed just above his head. Throwing out one hand, he touched the top, and then the wall turned to mist beneath his feet. He cried out and the figure, now darkened to the color of heavy storm clouds, appeared above him.

  “Climb!” he insisted.

  “I can‘t!”

  “You must or all is lost!”

  “Then help me, you piss-head!”

  And suddenly he was hanging in midair, held up by the figure’s will alone as the wall collapsed around him. Far below he saw a tiny village appear out of the smoke and dust and just as suddenly he knew its name.

  Yildiz-Koy.

  He fell. As the ground rushed up to claim him, he heard the voice again, its tone much gentler now.

  “Well done, Delin. Now go to them and tell them, tell him. Yildiz-Koy will be the first but not the last to fall. They can stop it, Brax can stop it, but only if they know. Only if you tell them.”

  And Spar smelled burning.

  “Shield up, and then counter with the sword.”

  In the practice yard, Spar crouched under a plane tree watching as Kemal flung his shield up to knock Yashar’s attack aside, then sweep his own weapon around to be caught in return. He frowned.

  It had been two days since the voice had shown him the raid on Yildiz-Koy; two days since it had urged him to go to his new abayon and tell them what he’d seen. Since then, it had seemed content to lie quietly and wait for his response, but Spar didn’t fool himself into thinking it had gone.

  “So, what do you care?”

  “I don‘t, but you might. You might care just enough to stop it.”

  Spar shook his head at the memory. Despite what the voice had said, he knew it had to have some kind of personal stake in all this or it wouldn’t have pushed him so hard. Nobody gave anything away for free, especially information. No, it would bide its time until the last possible moment and then, if he hadn’t moved yet, it would rise up again with a new form of attack. When it did, he had to be ready to meet it; he’d learned that much strategy at least.

  “You might care just enough to stop it.”

  But the question was, did he?

  “A shield is best used to deflect, not to block,” Kemal continued, breaking into his reverie. “Never take a blow directly if you can help it. The shield may not be able to withstand the force of it and, if it breaks, your arm certainly won’t withstand another. A broken shield is preferable to a broken arm, but an intact shield and an intact arm are the most preferable of all.”

  Bringing his shield up again, Kemal tilted it slightly as Yashar aimed another blow at his head. The sword skittered off to the side, sending the larger man to Kemal’s left and Kemal brought his sword point up to freeze an inch away from his arkados’ ribs. “And, as you can see, a deflection might overbalance your opponent, opening him up to your own attack.” He traced the sword point alongYashar’s tunic and the older man showed his teeth at him. “Any questions?”

  He glanced over at Spar who shook his head impatiently. That was what he’d be doing if he went to Kemal and Yashar, his thoughts continued, refusing to be side-tracked; taking a blow directly—maybe on the shield—but definitely directly. On the streets he’d never taken any kind of blow at all, that’s what made you a mark. And that’s what the voice was trying to do, turn him into a mark by making him think the raid on Yildiz-Koy was his responsibility, making him commit openly to the life of a seer.

  “And as for Spar, they’d sell him to the God of Prophecy’s white-eyed lunatics at Incasa-Sarayi in a heartbeat if they ever found out what he could do for them. They’d addle his brains with their seeking so fast he’d go mad from the strain.”

  Spar shook his head, impatient with the memory. He knew the priests of Incasa were dangerous, but the voice was equally dangerous. There had to be a way to accomplish what Kemal was talking about: deflect the voice so that it overbalanced and opened itself up to a counterattack; so that it became the mark, not him, so that when and if he took on a seer’s life, it was on his terms and nobody else’s.

  The thought of turning the voice into a mark appealed to him and he returned his attention to the lesson with renewed interest. Brax was standing now, mirroring Kemal’s movement with an intense expression and suddenly Spar felt an irrational stab of jealousy. Brax had no doubts, no questions. His path was clear: learn to fight, then fight. He trusted Estavia to protect him, or more likely, Spar amended cynically, he believed he was unkillable. But Spar knew better. He could die in a heartbeat, they all could; he’d seen it.

  “It all comes down to one thing: the Warriors of Estavia took us in. They fed us and they clothed us, so they have the right to direct our training.”

  But did they also have the right to get them killed?

  With a scowl, he leaned back on his heels and drove the point of his wooden practice sword into a crevice between two flagstones. And why did he have to worry about any of this, he thought, suddenly feeling petulant. He was nine. Tanay had said he didn’t have to make any decisions yet. And he shouldn’t have had to anyway. Brax was supposed to take care of them. This whole plan of letting Cindar die and then handing them over to a temple full of guards and soldiers had been his idea, but now some mysterious know-it-all voice was making Spar take responsibility for all of them, not just for him and Brax, whether he wanted to or not. And get his own life ruined in the meantime, he added with an indignant growl, because he knew that as soon as he told anyone that he could see things, really see things, Sable Company would be on him like a flock of eyeball-picking crows, never mind the priests of Incasa, just like the pain-in-the-ass voice probably wanted. And why hadn’t they seen all of this themselves, anyway? It was their job, after all.

  It wasn’t fair.

  With a dark scowl, he stabbed his sword point down into the crevice again, but at Yashar’s warning frown, he thrust it back into his scabbard
. He was sick of thinking and sick of practicing, he thought sulkily; it was too hot for either. Glancing up, he glared at the sun as it blazed down on him from high in the shimmeringly pale sky. The air was unseasonably heavy and humid, the small amount of lake breeze able to work its way past the tower walls and buildings no match for it. He felt sleepy and sticky, and horribly confined in the padded practice tunic. All he wanted to do was tear it off and toss it into the inlet, then throw himself after it. In the old days he and Brax would never have been out in the sun with this many clothes on, not at this time of day. They would be off dozing under a wharf or tucked up against the side of a tree-shaded hostel waiting for the cool evening breezes to bring the drinkers and gamblers—the most unwary marks in Anavatan—out into the streets. But not anymore. Oh, no. Now they had to pretend to stab people to death until they passed out from the heat.

  He snorted. Brax looked pretty close to it. His face was beet red, his hair plastered to his skull. Even Kemal and Yashar were dripping with sweat.

  Wishing that some God of shade and leisure had risen from Gol-Beyaz with the rest of Them, Spar caught up Yashar’s waterskin and pulled the hide-wrapped cork as loudly as possible. If they all wanted to die of thirst, they could, he thought taking a deliberately long drink. He wasn’t going to.

  As if reading his thoughts, Yashar called a halt. Brax threw himself down beside the younger boy as Kemal set his shield carefully against the tree trunk. Spar glanced over at it, noting the many scrapes and gouges across the surface. With a start, he realized that each one represented a blow—a possible killing blow—that Kemal had avoided. Seeing his expression, his abayos turned the shield so that he could see it more clearly.

  “Those are from sword and spear deflections,” he said, pointing at four long indentations, “and this pattern of smaller damage is from arrow fire, the only force a shield is meant to absorb,” he added, continuing the lecture. “And even then, with a metal shield the most skillful can deflect that as well, allowing the arrows to be retrieved and sent back at the enemy.”

  “Always my favorite strategy,” Yashar noted. Catching up a nearby bucket, he emptied its contents over his head, shaking vigorously as water poured down his face and beard to soak the front of his tunic. “A metal shield is always best.”

  Spar’s face grew cloudy. Kemal’s shield was twice the size of his own small wooden one and that was heavy enough to carry. He doubted he’d ever be able to even lift one made of metal. Beside him, Brax frowned as he liberated the waterskin from the younger boy, obviously thinking the same thing.

  “It does have the advantage of deflection,” Kemal allowed, noting their expressions, “but its disadvantage is the sheer weight of it, which hampers both speed and coordination; something I believe our young delinkon are quite adept at, yes?” He smiled at them reassuringly.

  “Point,” Yashar agreed. “Plus a deflected arrow might also strike an ally.”

  “And point again,” his arkados nodded. “In that instance all you can really do is pray that Estavia will further deflect the arrow into the ground for you.”

  “And pray that She’ll direct your own arrows to their intended targets,” Yashar added.

  “Does She?” Brax asked, tipping his head up to take a deep drink from the waterskin.

  “Not generally, no,” Kemal answered sternly, before Yashar could say something humorous about Brax’s aim which up until this point had been extremely erratic. “She expects you to practice with as much diligence as is necessary to become proficient on your own.”

  “I’ll be an old man by then,” Brax groused, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

  “Very likely,” Yashar agreed.

  Ignoring the conversation, Spar ran his finger along the gouges, his expression pensive. So either Kemal had managed to avoid all these attacks, or Estavia had deflected them for him, he thought. Whichever it was hardly mattered; what mattered was that he was still alive. He frowned. So why was Kemal’s safety his problem, he grumbled, returning to his original line of thought. Why was any of theirs? Kemal was a warrior, so was Yashar. They knew what they were risking. Obviously they had protections in place.

  But did Brax?

  He saw him struggle against a hundred sharp-clawed creatures of power and need in a sea of blood-flecked mist. He saw the waves crash over him, saw them knock him off his feet, and saw the creatures close over his head as he went down.

  He frowned. Protections or not, death could come so easily; all it took was one misstep. The Warriors of Estavia died all the time just like the council had reminded Brax—their memorial ritual in High Summer sometimes took hours.

  He smiled wistfully. That had been the best time to work in the old days, when the warriors and garrison guards were all busy remembering friends and lovers who had died too young. He shook his head in renewed anger. Why would any of them ever want to risk it, anyway?

  “Spar? Are you all right?”

  He blinked, then looked up to see Kemal watching him with a concerned expression. Shaking his head irritably, he glanced over at Brax.

  “He’s wondering what it’s like,” the older boy supplied, taking a wild stab at Spar’s expression.

  “What? Battle?”

  It was close enough so Spar gave a careful, noncommittal shrug.

  Kemal stretched his legs out in front of him, crossing one ankle over the other before answering. “Frightening and exhilarating,” he said as he accepted the waterskin from Brax, “but then Estavia fills you and you forget your own feelings in the rush of the God’s passion for combat.”

  Brax had his foggy barge-pole expression on his face again and Spar snorted.

  “And when you die?” he demanded, his voice harsher than he’d expected, but knowing Brax would not ask this question for him.

  “The God will take us down into the depths of Gol-Beyaz to sleep by Her side.”

  “So you don’t care if you die?”

  “We care, but we also accept.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s what we do.”

  “Think of it this way,” Yashar explained, coming over to sit next to Spar. “All trades have purpose, technique, and tools. In your, uh, earlier trade your purpose was to ... thieve, I suppose, yes?” When Spar gave a careless nod, he continued. “The technique was to rob people in such a way as to get away with it, I imagine, and the tools were some form of lock-picking needle or pocket-picking hook?”

  Spar bridled indignantly at the last word and Brax chuckled.

  “Spar never used a dip,” he explained proudly. “He was far too good for that. Always was.”

  Kemal chuckled and Yashar shot his arkados a disapproving look from beneath his heavy, black eyebrows. “The point I’m trying to make is a serious one,” he said sternly. “Your old trade was theft, your new trade; our trade is, to put it bluntly, death. Now, there’s a lot more to it than that, of course; we protect the followers and the property of the Gods, but we do it by killing. That is at the heart of our worship. We kill in Estavia’s name, for Estavia’s reasons, and at Her order. Our techniques are those of battle: strategy and tactics, and our tools are the sword, bow, lance, and spear. We kill, and sometimes we die, again in Her name, for Her reasons, and occasionally at Her order.”

  “You see, everyone dies, Spar,” Kemal added gently. “The best anyone can hope for is to die well.”

  The best anyone can hope for is to die old, Spar thought cynically, but said nothing as Yashar nodded his agreement with Kemal’s words.

  “And, just as the God draws strength from the deeds we perform in life, as we explained before,” he added, “so does She draw strength from our deaths. In this She is the God of Death. It is Her domain.”

  Brax and Spar exchanged a look. “But I thought all the Gods shared death,” Brax said with a frown.

  “And so They do,” Kemal answered. “Each in Their own way: Usara oversees death in the sick, Oristo in the aged or the very, very young, while Havo lays claim
to the cycle of deaths and rebirths in all of nature. Ystazia gives death meaning through poetry and song, while Incasa lays out the time and place for His Seers to use for His purposes. But only Estavia sends Her people out to cause death and to risk it. We know what may happen and we go willingly. Anyone unwilling does not go.”

  And Brax would go; he’d seen it.

  “You just might care enough to stop it.”

  “Shut up.” He flicked one hand impatiently, and Kemal made an inquiring noise.

  “Fly,” he answered simply.

  His abayos gave him a sympathetic smile. “A quarter hour more and we’ll go for a swim in the inlet where the Gods still keep the water fresh; they can’t reach you in the water. All right?”

  Spar nodded, trying not to show the relief on his face as they stood once more.

  “Good. Now again. Shield up...”

  Two days later he dreamed again. The wall fell in a crash of rock and a spray of power and, eyes streaming in the broiling dust, Spar watched as a line of torch-wielding riders winked in and out of sight along the crest of a hill. The same familiar, mounted figure rose up like a beacon in the saddle, and as they stared at each other, the figure gave a signal and the riders bent down, touching the fiery ends of their torches to the dry fields below. Flames shot into the sky.

  He tried to shout a warning, but the smoke filled his lungs, making him choke. Scrabbling frantically in the bedclothes to find Jaq, he struggled to wake up, but this time even the dog’s comforting presence could not halt the stream of images. He saw battle joined, saw the defenders fall, and once again a thousand creatures of power and need rose up to close over Brax’s head.

  Nearly hysterical by now, Spar’s mind hurled outward, seeking help from someone, from anyone he could trust. Streaking down the paths of memory, it hit Tanay’s sleeping mind like a thunderbolt, almost throwing her from her pallet. The force of it awakened first Oristo deep in Gol-Beyaz, then First Abayos-Priest Neclan, before it ricocheted back toward him. He cried out, and then the image of a frail old woman seated in a room of warm wood and colored glass rose up to steer the vision in the proper direction, and suddenly at Serin-Koy’s Usara-Cami, a blank-faced man with Bayard’s features sat bolt upright in his bed. For an instant he and Spar locked eyes, then, with an almost physical jolt, the man caught up the boy’s latent ability and hurled it toward the shining net of Battle-Seer Elif’s prophetic sight hovering above her sleeping form at Estavia-Sarayi. The old woman’s cataract-filled eyes snapped open to stare into Spar‘s, and then she whipped out one mental hand toward him.