The Silver Lake

by Fiona Patton

  Bayard’s middle delos looked up from the blade of grass he was methodically shredding and frowned. “Um ... ‘Cause there aren’t enough of them?”

  Badahir smiled. “And here I thought you weren’t paying attention. Right. There aren’t enough of them. They maintain no more than a very loose, very temporary alliance with other Yuruk families, formed when they have a set objective. They have no council or leaders, so there’s no one to mold them into a solid disciplined, fighting force, and no hierarchy—that means nobody tells them what to do, Aptulli,” she added in response to the girl’s confused expression.

  “Not even the Gods?” she asked, her eyes wide.

  “They don’t have Gods, dummy,” Ekrubi sneered. “Everybody knows that.”

  “Yeah, like everybody knows you peed your pallet last night,” she shot back. Her kardos made a lunge for her, but at Badahir’s frown, he returned to his place, muttering darkly.

  “Everyone does not know it,” the birin-kaptin said sternly. “Very little is known about the Yuruk. What is known is that they value the quality of our livestock, but they would rather try to steal it than pay for it. This is nothing new; they make raids against the western villages every year. So, why don’t we have to fear them? Hieson?”

  “Because our militia is the strongest on Gol-Beyaz,” the oldest delinkon present promptly replied and Badahir smiled.

  “Well, that may be why Serin-Koy doesn’t have to fear them,” she allowed. “But what about the rest of the villages?”

  “The wall protects them,” Arrian piped up.

  “And?”

  “Um, the battle-seers always see them coming first?”

  “A very good point to remember, yes,” Badahir acknowledged, drawing a pleased smile from her delos. “And? Anyone?”

  “The Warriors of Estavia kill them all whenever they try anything,” Brax added darkly.

  The other children glanced over at him uneasily, but Badahir nodded, her expression serious. “Sometimes that’s exactly why,” she agreed. “Being willing and being able to kill your enemies. The Warriors of Estavia are both and they got that way by consistent, diligent practice. And, yes, that’s why we’re here today,” she added as the children began to groan at the word practice. “Even those of you who won’t be pledging your service to the God of Battles need to know how to defend yourselves and your village if called upon.” She turned. “Coval, hand out those practice swords to anyone who needs one.” As her delinkos hurried to obey her, she continued. “Obviously, the willingness to kill or even die in defense of those under your protection is only the beginning. You also need discipline, focus, perseverance, patience, strength, flexibility, coordination and stamina. So let’s talk about discipline.” She grinned as several of the children began to groan again at the even less popular word.

  “All right, fine, how about stamina? Contrary to what you might think, stamina is not being able to go full out all day. Stamina is knowing when to move and when to rest, knowing what muscles to use, and what muscles to relax, knowing when to take a breath and when to release it, knowing how to pace yourself so that you don’t waste the reserves of power and energy you might need before the battle’s over and, finally, knowing exactly how much force is necessary and using no more and no less. On that note, Coval, get Ivasik up and ready.”

  As Coval heaved a large, straw figure covered in a tattered brown tunic into the center of the courtyard, Ekrubi leaned toward Brax.

  “My aba named it after this famous Rostovic general he heard about once,” he whispered. “But after Kemal went to Estavia-Sarayi, he saw a woodcut of him, and he says it doesn’t look anything like him, but we kept the name anyhow.”

  Badahir cleared her throat loudly and the boy swung his attention back to her as she raised her sword, pointing the tip at Ivasik’s chest.

  “Now, this is a practice sword and that is a practice dummy,” she explained. “You’ll find that if, and when, you close with a real opponent the resistance may be quite different depending on what kind of armor they may be wearing. However, with the battle lust on you and the God’s power coursing through your veins, you may not even realize you’ve thrust.” She slashed at the dummy’s midsection and Aptulli gasped, clutching her delos-drum to her chest. “In this place you’re both powerful and vulnerable,” Badahir continued. “That’s where practice comes in so that instinct immediately prepares you and your weapon for another attack.” Continuing the movement, she snapped the blade sideways and stepped forward with it raised to strike once more. “Otherwise you may never feel the enemy’s strike either, and then ...” She looked pointedly around and Hadir’s hand shot into the air.

  “You die,” he stated emphatically.

  “You die,” Badahir repeated. “But if you pay attention, Ekrubin-Delin, your enemy will die instead.”

  The boy started guiltily, dropping the handful of pebbles he’d collected as the others snickered.

  “Now, generally the young have the advantage of speed and flexibility, the old, the advantage of power,” Badahir continued. “So let’s see where we all fit in with that. Who wants to go first?” She made a show of glancing around as half a dozen hands began to wave. “How about you, Brax. Let’s see what our Kemin has taught you, eh? Give Ivasik a mighty whack there.”

  With all eyes staring curiously at him, Brax stood, pulled his sword and, feeling the God’s power suddenly rise in anticipation, screamed as loud as he could and threw himself at the practice dummy, dealing it a blow that would have decapitated it if the force of his attack hadn’t sent them both hurling to the ground. A great puff of straw and dust exploded all around them as they landed.

  The gathered stared at him, openmouthed, as he disentangled himself. Rising with a scowl that dared any of them to say anything, he sheathed his sword, and after a moment, Badahir cleared her throat.

  “As I was saying, the old generally have the advantage of power.” She paused, but when Brax simply glared at her, she shrugged. “Generally.”

  Coval chuckled. Lifting the dummy, he began to stuff the straw back through the split seam in its throat. “It was a good strike,” he allowed with a smile as Brax began to help him with the repairs.

  “Yes,” Badahir agreed. “The enemy is definitely down, but this might be a good time to talk about control. Without it, you’re also vulnerable. And on the ground,” she added unable to resist the comment. Brax scowled but said nothing. “With it, you’re unassailable; control yourself and you control your opponent.”

  “If Brax came at me like that, I don’t think I could control my bladder,” Ekrubi pronounced with a laugh.

  Badahir raised one dark eyebrow at him. “Well, then I suggest you stay on his good side, Delin,” she suggested. “And how about you go next? See if you can hit the enemy without crushing him into the dust.”

  As the younger boy jumped up and advanced on the dummy with a feral grin, Brax threw himself down beside Spar. The pressure of the God’s awakened passion buzzed through his body like a thousand bees, making it difficult to sit still and, as he watched Ekrubi aim a wobbly slash at the dummy’s chest, he grinned to himself. Control or not, he was definitely catching up to the delinkon his own age. Sooner or later, they would have to take his promise to Estavia seriously.

  Deep within him, the God thrummed Her agreement.

  An hour later, Badahir called a halt to the afternoon’s training. Every one of the children’d had a chance to take out their fear and trepidation on Ivasik, and it was with a buoyant air that they scattered toward their various homes for supper. Ekrubi aimed a swing at Brax, then ran in mock terror as the other boy advanced on him, while Hieson and Arrian chased Hadir from the courtyard shouting out that they were going to steal his livestock. Even Spar unbent enough to allow Aptulli to show him a new rhythm for his drum, but as they passed within sight of the wall, his attention returned inexorably toward it, his expression grim. Beside him, Brax just rolled his eyes.

  The next evening,
however, as the two of them took up their usual position on the battlements, Brax was more concerned. Spar had become increasingly subdued all that morning, refusing to acknowledge anyone who spoke to him and glaring at Brax when he’d caustically asked what kind of flea was climbing up his arse. He’d disappeared with Jaq right after the noon meal, missed training, and only reappeared just before supper, but had refused to talk about it. Knowing that he would eventually spill whatever was bothering him, Brax had waited him out and, after stuffing his face as if he hadn’t eaten in three days, Spar’d finally jerked his head toward the tower. They’d slipped away, managing to avoid the cleanup even with Jaq tagging along behind them.

  Now, Brax leaned his elbows against the parapet, waiting for the other boy to speak, but after a long silence, glanced over at him. Spar was staring out at the wall, his expression fearful.

  Brax frowned.

  “Spar?”

  When he didn’t answer, Brax touched him lightly on the arm, scowling down at Jaq as the dog whined at him.

  “C‘mon Spar, what is it? What’s wrong?”

  The younger boy took a deep breath. “Something’s different,” he whispered.

  Brax turned to stare at the wall but could see nothing unusual. “How?”

  Spar frowned. “I don’t know, just different,” he replied vaguely. “It’s changed. Something’s changed it.”

  “Some thing? Like a God maybe?”

  Spar shook his head, his face twisted into a grimace of frustration. “No. I don’t know. I can’t ... see it.” He turned suddenly, his blue eyes gone a frighteningly misty white, and Brax felt a chill run up his spine. “Something’s happening,” he said softly.

  “Something.”

  Spar nodded. “Something big.” He pointed out past the wall at the distant horizon. “Out there.”

  Beyond the wall something moved under his regard, then slipped away.

  “Out there. Somewhere.”

  “WHERE WILL IT BE?”

  “Somewhere.”

  “SOMEWHERE WHERE?”

  “Somewhere near.”

  “SOMEWHERE NEAR WHERE? TELL ME.”

  “Later.”

  “WHY LATER?”

  “Because now’s not the time to speak of it.”

  “WHY NOT?”

  “Because there are too many ears listening and too many eyes watching now.”

  “WHEN WON’T THERE BE?”

  “Soon. Very soon.”

  Hidden deep in one of the many crevices of the Berbat-Dunya’s western ridges—just as Hadzi had supposed—Graize and the growing army of Yuruk stopped for the night. While the elders raised the tents and the youngsters tended the ponies, Rayne and Caleb took their new wyrdin with them to find water. Setting their bows carefully to one side, they began to fill a number of water-skins from a thin, winding stream, one of the many, both above and below ground, that fed Gol-Beyaz far to the east. Graize could feel its tiny allotment of power flowing past him like a school of silvery hamsi fish and, bringing a dripping handful to his mouth, he sipped at the chill, living water, then tossed the rest into the air. The spirits around him snapped at the droplets like so many greedy seagulls while, high above, the Godling watched hungrily, waiting with poorly concealed impatience for Its own time to feed.

  “When will it be?”

  “When will what be?”

  Graize returned his attention to the water, casually deflecting the unfamiliar thread of power that rippled past him on the breeze, his expression drawing inward as he recognized its source. The Battle God’s seers had discovered the place of attack some days ago—as he’d known they would; they weren’t completely blind after all—but not the time nor the size of the attack force. They’d been seeking the kazakin with all their might ever since; the spirits could feel their movements and had passed their feeling along to Graize, but Danjel had led them along a secret silvery path of power, hidden from all eyes save those born to the wild lands themselves. The seers would remain blind for as long as Graize wanted them to be. After that, his only fear was that they might remain blind past the time he needed them to see, but the northern sorcerer would help him with that whether he wanted to or not. Baring his teeth at the sky in a grimace of anticipation, Graize licked his lips. The Godling had shown him that possibility hiding behind the clouds this morning. The northern sorcerer would tell Spar and Spar would tell the others. Who’d have thought he’d ever see that particular little dockyard rat again?

  The memory of the younger boy, eyes wide with shock and fear as Graize was snatched away from him by a host of blood-maddened spirits, caused his thoughts to suddenly spiral down into a swirling mist of bewilderment and uncertainty. Spar was dead, wasn’t he? Sucked dry by the very same spirits that had murdered Drove? How could he be hiding behind a veil of mist and clouds if he was dead? And if he was there, who else might be hiding there beside him?

  The faintest outline of a half-remembered, dark-haired figure began to take form, and Graize shook his head savagely. No. He would not see that one. The past was only necessary to drive the future and his fellow lifters existed only in the past. If Spar truly lived, then he was the only one to have survived that terrible night intact. Graize would see to it that he didn’t survive too many more.

  Reaching into the pouch at his belt, he brought out his badly damaged stag beetle, stroking its cracked carapace to soothe his mind as he told the Godling to take the images away. He would not think of the others and they would not think of him. The game was all that mattered; the game and the moves necessary to win it.

  As his thoughts stilled, he reached out confidently. The first move began to form in his mind with an almost painfully clear, crystal clarity, then a shimmering pattern of sun and shadow dappled across his vision, causing his thoughts to scatter once again and he snapped his teeth together in irritation.

  “Now what?”

  He glanced up with a frown to see Danjel standing over him, a lacquered hide and iron helmet in one hand, a wineskin in the other. Smiling at Graize’s annoyed expression, the other wyrdin silently held out the wineskin.

  Graize set the stag beetle to one side with a sigh. Ordinarily, he found comfort and even focus in the older youth’s presence; however, the long trek through the Berbat-Dunya’s powerful heartland had brought Danjel closer to a truly bi-gendered form than ever before and the change was unstable. The constant ebb and flow from male to female was making it harder and harder to see him. See her. See Danjel. Accepting the wineskin, Graize fixed the other youth with a narrow-eyed stare.

  “You’re blocking my view of the river, Kardos,” he growled. “Either choose a sail or stay in dock, but this back-and-forth tacking is making me seasick.”

  Features shifting obligingly closer to the female, Danjel dropped down beside him, pulling off her riding boots and dipping her feet into the water before bringing her bright green eyes to bear on Graize’s face.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded as the younger wyrdin took a drink, then tossed the wineskin to Rayne and opened a goatskin bag she’d been carrying since they’d left their spring encampment.

  “Creating the future,” Graize answered, dumping the contents out onto the ground.

  “With turtle shells?”

  “Yes, with turtle shells. Caleb collected them for me before we left,” he said gesturing at the younger boy, who gave Danjel a smug smile.

  “Why turtle shells?”

  “Because turtles carry all possible futures with them in their travels. They carry them in their shells.” Graize stroked the pile gently with his fingertips, his expression distant. “And what are they for, Kardos?” he asked suddenly, mimicking Danjel’s modulated accent.

  The older youth frowned at him. “Well, children use them to shovel sand,” she sneered. “Adults make them into bowls.”

  “Indeed, bowls to carry shoveled sand in.”

  Danjel shook her head impatiently. “Bowls to hold hummus or yogurt in.”

 
; Graize shook his head. “Oh, no, bowls to hold the future in. Remember they’re turtle shells.” Laying each shell in a line along the water’s edge, he turned them so that the older wyrdin could see the symbols he’d etched inside each one. “Turtle shells carrying a future of sand and sea and land and stone and power and ...” he paused, watching the lights spin lazily above his head.

  Beside him, Rayne jabbed him with her elbow. “And?” she prodded, passing the wineskin back to Danjel despite Caleb’s protest.

  “And death, little marten,” Graize finished. Taking up the stag beetle between finger and thumb, he touched it to each shell in a parody of walking. “The death of all our enemies,” he purred.

  “I like the sound of that,” Caleb chuckled, mollified by the thought of battle.

  “Mm-hm. However,” Graize raised one warning finger, “there are nasty little traps everywhere that our turtle-future might still fall into,” he added, his expression darkening. “Nasty little traps with nasty little spies hiding inside them, like sneaky little crabs waiting to eat our turtle.”

  Danjel paused, the wineskin half lifted to her mouth. “Spies?” she asked with a frown.

  Graize nodded sagely. “Mind spies,” he answered, touching one finger to his temple.

  “You mean the Anavatanon seers?”

  “Them and others, too.”

  “Oh, right, your northern sorcerer.” Danjel finished her drink and Graize watched as the thin rivulets of power in the wine trickled down the smooth length of her throat, wondering idly if she ever needed to shave or if whiskers were too far toward the male for her to manage even when she was ... a he. He would have to ask her someday. Some day when it mattered.