by Fiona Patton
Almost crying with relief, he caught it.
The vision tumbled over him and through him, falling faster and faster like the stones of the collapsing wall he’d first seen, but this time they did not fall before the eyes of a frightened and inexperienced child, but those of a cunning and powerfully dangerous battle-seer. With an impatient gesture, Elif stripped the subterfuge and extraneous details from the vision, called up one clear image: a horde of Yuruk attacking Yildiz-Koy, then banished it. It vanished like so much mist in a windstorm and the last thing Spar saw before the peaceful darkness of a dreamless sleep came over him was Elif thrusting the vision into the sleeping mind of Kaptin Liel with the metaphysical equivalent of a smack to the back of the head. As Sable Company’s most powerful seer jerked awake in surprise, Elif and Spar allowed themselves the pleasure of one cynical snort.
Far away in Cvet Tower, Illan Dmitriviz Volinsk nodded in satisfaction. Although his little seer had—very skillfully he admitted—managed to keep his figurine from the board for the moment, the game had only just begun. All that mattered now was that the Warriors of Estavia were moving in the direction he desired. Returning to his place before his window, he stared out at the moonlit waves as the warm breeze returned to whisper playfully about his face.
11
The Wall
THREE DAYS LATER, four barges carrying two hundred archers and infantry set out from Anahtar-Hisar. Three made for the eastern shore to pick up reservists from Caliskan, Camus and Adasi-Koy while the fourth, carrying Estavia’s newest Champion, went west to Ekmir, Kenor, Kepe, and Serin-Koy. Picking his way carefully along the crowded deck, Brax supposed that he should be thankful that the complement of Bronze Company cavalry had ridden out the day before. The return trip was already three times longer than the journey south had been—then it had just been a question of filling the sails, now it took a line of rowers on either side of the barge to fight their way north—but at least they weren’t doing it covered in horse shit.
“The current’s stronger in High Spring,” the barge-mate had explained the first day. “That’s when the Gods are at Their...” he’d paused for dramatic emphasis... “friskiest like everything else.”
Brax had shot him a look cynical enough to impress even Spar, but hadn’t been able to resist leaning over the side to see if he could spot any... friskiness going on. There had been nothing but tiny bubbles rising from the smooth surface, just like the last time, and both Kemal and Yashar had laughed at him.
“It has nothing to do with the Gods,” Kemal had explained. “The upper current runs north-south, remember, and with so many people on board, it’s natural that it would take longer.”
Brax had just shrugged. He hadn’t been particularly interested in anything Kemal’d had to say to him right then. Squeezing into a small spot at the larboard railing, he stared back at the receding turrets of Alev-Hisar, the tower both Kinor and Kepe-Koy shared, remembering the frenzy that had gripped Anahtar-Hisar when they’d heard the news: the Yuruk were planning a raid on the village of Yildiz-Koy and one third of the garrison was being deployed to meet the threat. Including Kemal and Yashar. Brax had been wildly excited about the prospect of carrying out his promise to Estavia so soon, but the older of their two abayon had squashed his mood almost immediately.
“You’ll only be coming with us as far as Serin-Koy.”
“What?”
Yashar cut off Brax’s budding protest with a short chop of one hand. “No arguments, Delin. This is battle, not practice, and you’re still far too young.”
“I can stay at the back.”
“There is no back; only the last line of defense.”
“Other delinkon go into battle.”
“Not at your level of training.”
“But...”
“No. You’ll remain behind in Serin-Koy with Bayard and your new kardon. End of discussion.”
“There’ll be plenty of battles to come,” Kemal added, trying to take the sting from the decision. “There’s no need to face them all at once.”
“I told Her I would fight for Her,” Brax answered between clenched teeth.
“And so you will, when you’re old enough.”
Seething with resentment, Brax made to protest again; then the God touched his mind with the faintest of caresses and he bit the words back at once. Kemal eyed him suspiciously, but ignoring the penetrating look, Brax simply turned on his heel and left the room.
Some time later, Spar and Jaq found him standing on a low spot on the God-Wall, shooting arrows at a straw target with a dark expression on his face. The younger boy crossed his arms, his own expression demanding an explanation for Brax’s sudden acquiescence, and the older boy just shrugged.
“She told me to wait,” he said simply, fitting another arrow to his bowstring.
Spar’s eyes narrowed.
“She did. She told me to wait.”
Something moved behind the younger boy’s eyes for an instant, and Brax cocked his head to one side.
“What?”
Pulling one of Jaq’s ears, Spar just shook his head.
“No, really, what?”
“Nothing.”
Now it was Brax’s turn to narrow his eyes. “Yeah, so, how come you’ve got that ‘gotta take a piss’ look on your face?”
Spar showed his teeth at him, then shrugged. “I was just wondering ...” he began, then paused again.
“What? Where the latrine is?”
“When you started obeying anyone on the first order,” the younger boy snapped.
Brax snickered. “Since now. I guess I’m just more mature these days.” Laughing at Spar’s familiar sneer, he unstrung his bow. “I had to talk to Estavia and do some thinking,” he allowed, “and I couldn’t do either with everyone flying about like bees around a hive someone had just kicked over, now could I?”
Spar gave his usual one-shouldered shrug. “So, what’re we doing, then?” he asked.
“About what?”
“About Serin-Koy?”
“What about Serin-Koy?”
Spar gave an annoyed snort. “Are. We. Going?” he asked tightly.
“ ‘Course we are.” Brax jumped down. “Kemal and Yashar are our abayon now, like Cindar was, yeah? So, we do what they tell us to do, but ...” he held up one finger, “we keep our eyes and our ears open, just like in the old days.” His expression grew serious. “And if you get any bad feelings about anything at all, you tell me right away and we go to ground. Just like in the old days, too. Got it?” When Spar nodded, he threw his arm over his shoulder. “All right, then, let’s go play nice and let them think I was just off sulking.”
Spar shot him a cynical glance and he laughed.
“Don’t be an idiot.” As the sound of their names filtered out to them, he jerked his head toward the tower. “C‘mon. They probably want us to practice not going into battle today.”
Although his expression had remained doubtful, the younger boy’d allowed Brax to draw him back to Anahtar-Hisar and Brax’d smiled in satisfaction. They would go to Serin-Koy, just as he’d told Spar they would, but the God had a plan for him—he could feel it—and if She told him to go to Yildiz-Koy, he would go, whether their new abayon said he could or not. But at least this way Spar would be safe.
Now, looking out at the western shore, it seemed impossible to believe that they could be hurrying toward battle on such a perfect day. The grain fields beyond the villages were awash with the pale green spread of new growth and the distant hills already looked lush and wild. If he stared long enough, he could almost see each blade of grass and each tiny blue-and-yellow wildflower stretching all the way out to the horizon. Everything was so still, so peaceful, and so ... he felt his chest tighten ... open. He swallowed, his throat dry. Anyone could see you out there in that huge empty place with all that sky. How could anyone live and work out there without feeling horribly ... stared at.
Suddenly wishing he was back home amidst the safe, concealing bui
ldings and wharves of Anavatan, he turned away, concentrating on the crowded deck until his heart stopped pounding. Around him, the warriors of Cyan Company played dice or dozed in the warm afternoon sun, content to treat the journey like an extended leave. Even Spar was curled up asleep, arms wrapped around Jaq, unconcerned about the future. Taking a deep breath, he thrust the sense of panic away.
Don’t be stupid, he chided himself. She wouldn’t let anything like that happen to you. So shut up, calm down, and get some sleep.
Reaching in to touch the comforting warmth of the God’s presence, he slid down until his back pressed against the railing and made himself close his eyes.
They put in to Serin-Koy just before dusk. So close to Yildiz-Koy, the village conscript of twenty-four archers, fifty infantry, and twelve battle-seers had gone overland the day before, but Bayard was waiting for them on the wharf, having guessed their purpose in stopping. On deck, Yashar and Kemal took their leave of their new delinkon with little fanfare, the older man simply taking each boy in a great bear hug that made them gasp, the younger staring searchingly into their faces for a long moment.
“You’ll take care of Jaq, Delin?” he asked Spar seriously.
One fist wrapped tightly around the dog’s collar, the younger boy nodded.
Kemal smiled. “Well, that’s a relief. I have to admit that, even though the God loves him, I was always a little afraid for him on the battlefield.”
“You don’t have to be afraid for him anymore,” Spar answered firmly.
Kemal nodded, then, after giving him a brief hug and ruffling Jaq’s ears, turned to Brax. “Be safe, Delin,” he said earnestly. “Obey Bayard and Badahir. They could teach you a lot if you’re willing to learn.”
“I’m always willing to learn,” Brax answered stiffly.
“Yes, well ...” For a moment Kemal looked as if he might disagree, then he squeezed Brax’s shoulder with a distracted smile. “We’ll be back soon.”
Brax nodded, surprised by the sudden lump in his throat. “Don’t get killed, all right,” he said fiercely, scowling up at his new abayos to mask his concern.
“We’ll do our best.”
“You better, ‘cause I still don’t have that arrow deflecting trick down, you know.”
“I know. We’ll work on it as soon as we get back.”
“Good. Well. Good-bye.” Brax abruptly caught Spar by the shoulder and maneuvered him and Jaq onto the wharf without another word. As they took their place beside Bayard, the dog let out a single, loud bark and Spar dropped to one knee. Arms about the animal’s neck, he watched as the barge headed slowly back toward deeper water, then craned his head to look up at Brax. Unable to offer him any comfort, Brax just shrugged. He had no idea if they’d just lost two more abayon. He hoped not.
Two days later the village elders received a message. The collective relief force had reached Yildiz-Koy and its tall tower of Kumas-Hisar and had taken up their position between the fields and the hills. The scouts had fanned out across the plains but had returned with no word of the enemy. All was as quiet and peaceful as it had been for the last two years.
Holding court before a dozen children gathered outside Bayard’s forge, his delinkon Hadzi stated darkly that it hardly mattered.
“All they have to do is journey along one of the deeper gullies that follow the western ridge,” Badahir’s eldest bi-gender delos said in an ominous voice. “There’s places there permanently shrouded in mist and pockets of ancient power so thick no seer can pierce through them. The Yuruk could be creeping along there right now and no one would be any the wiser.”
The children glanced uneasily at each other, but Brax just bent to whisper a cynical comment in Spar’s ear and the younger boy snickered.
That evening, however, when the two of them climbed to the top of Orzin-Hisar—Jaq padding up the spiral staircase behind them—they were both unusually somber. Leaning against one of the shorter parapets, they stared out past the God-Wall, watching it shimmer with the bluish glow it took on in the setting sun, each one thinking his own thoughts.
They’d been coming up here several times a day since they’d arrived, partly to get away from Bayard’s noisy and chaotic household but mostly because Spar had become obsessed with the wall, staring intently at it for hours as if trying to memorize every nuance of its ever-changing facade. Or at least staring at it for as long as Brax would allow him to. The older boy was usually good for about half an hour before—growing bored—he’d make Spar come back down again. He’d been willing to let him climb up here alone, but ever since Spar had watched their abayon sail away from them, he’d become a little—Brax tried to come up with a gentler word than needy, and settled for clingy—and didn’t like having the older boy out of his sight. So that meant that every time he could convince him, the two of them made the long ascent to the quiet, breezy top of Orzin-Hisar.
Still, he supposed that if Spar had to stare at something, the wall was a better choice than the warehouse he’d been obsessed with all last winter.
“You mean the one we lifted those three bags of spices out of?” his mind supplied.
“Yeah that one, but I doubt the wall’s got any hidden treasures like that inside its stones.”
“So why’s he staring at it?”
“I dunno, maybe he thinks it’s pretty.”
His mind just sneered at him and Brax shrugged. He knew there had to be more to it than that, but Spar wasn’t ready to tell him yet and besides—he returned his gaze outward—it was pretty. At dawn the rising sun, reflecting off Gol-Beyaz, changed its nightly opaque indigo to that of a rosy orangey-yellow, then paled it to a nearly opalescent pink at its height, only to darken it once more to blue and back to indigo as the sun set behind the western hills. Last night at midnight, leaning against the parapet, half asleep, he’d marveled at the hints of green and purple and blue that sparkled like living stars across its face. It was as if the wall were alive, dancing and flowing to the rhythm of the sun and the moon.
Absently he’d wondered if the wall also changed color with the seasons, at the whim of the Gods, or as the fields and hills gave way to buildings and wharves. Back home he’d never even seen it—in fact he’d never even been farther north than the Western Trisect dockyards. The lake and village merchants that filled Anavatan’s many outdoor markets said it stretched a mile above the high stone walls of the city, but back home it hadn’t mattered. On the streets of Anavatan it was easy to ignore Gods, armies, enemies, and walls in the day-to day struggle to get by, but here it dominated every part of people’s lives; a physical reminder that there were other concerns besides bread.
Chewing at a hangnail on his sword hand, he sighed. Life used to be a lot simpler.
Estavia stroked a responding warmth through his mind reminding him that life used to be a lot colder, too, and he acknowledged Her point before glancing over at Spar.
“So what do you think?” he asked. “You figure a blacksmith’s delinkos who’s never been outside of Serin-Koy knows anything about ... anything?”
Standing in his usual position with one hand buried in Jaq’s ruff and the other cupping the delos-drum at his side, the younger boy quirked up the corners of his mouth but said nothing, continuing to stare out at the wall as if hypnotized.
Brax leaned over the parapet and spat an experimental wad of spittle at the ground. “Hadzi oughta shut up, though,” he noted with a scowl. “Everyone’s getting scared. Both Aptulli and Paus had nightmares last night.”
Spar nodded absently.
“ ‘Course it could be, yeah?” Brax continued, giving the other boy a questioning glance. “The Yuruk could be creeping along south, just out of sight behind the ridge and we’d never even know about it. Not if they’re hiding from the seers in some mind-blocking misty place like Hadzi says they are.”
His expression grim, Spar nodded again.
Rubbing his palm absently over the pommel of his sword, Brax grimaced. “Still, they have to come east
eventually, and then we’ll see them—I mean, then Kemal and the rest will see them,” he amended, scowling darkly as he remembered once again about all the fighting he was going to miss. He straightened suddenly. “Well, I say let them come, the Warriors’ll crush every last one of them. They can even come here. I’m not afraid of them.”
Staring out past the wall at the distant hills painted a vivid orange and purple in the setting sun, Spar just shook his head at him.
The next day, Birin-Militia-Kaptin Badahir gathered the older children together in the central courtyard. A tall woman, with Bayard’s eyes and Kemal’s thick black hair, she’d earned her position in a decade of fighting the Yuruk. Now she stood in the center of the courtyard, her delinkos Coval beside her, looking self-important.
Brax tried not to glare at him.
“All right,” Badahir said when they were all, more-or-less, quiet. “Since none of you seem able to talk about anything else, let’s talk about the Yuruk. Good riders, good archers, but poor infantry. Anyone know why?”
Seated beside Spar and Jaq, Aptulli dutifully raised her hand.
“Yes, Kardelin.”
“‘Cause they don’t walk anywhere.”
The children snickered, but Badahir nodded her head. “That’s right,” she answered and the girl stuck her tongue out at the others. “The Yuruk live in small, mobile family groups. They follow their flocks and herds from winter pasture to summer pasture, relying on small, sturdy, plains-bred ponies to cross the vast expanse of territory they have to cover every year. It’s said their delon are taught to ride before they can walk. They’re known for their skills with the bow and the spear, so they might be a force to be reckoned with except for what? Ekrubi?”