The Silver Lake

by Fiona Patton

  He remembered how proud he’d been when Bayard had entrusted him with this important duty at age eleven. The buckets had been heavy and awkward and he’d splashed more down his legs then he’d carried, but by thirteen he was leading the brigades that protected the storage barns. At fifteen, he’d stood with Badahir behind the God-Wall, listening to the sounds of arrow fire slicing through the air and the rhythmic thunking as the first barrage fell short. He remembered the invocation of Serin-Koy’s priests of Estavia calling on the Battle God to come and fight with them, and the awe and fearsome triumph he’d felt the first time he’d watched Her explode into being before them. He’d almost gone over the God-Wall after Her and would have if Badahir hadn’t caught him by the back of his cuirass and hauled him back.

  “Estavia favors him. She likes the combative ones.”

  A sudden pang of guilt made him wince as the memory brought up Yashar’s words about Brax. Perhaps they should have brought him to Yildiz-Koy, he thought. He was more than old enough to carry buckets and he would have been in no more danger than any other village delinkos. It might have been good for him, taught him to behave as part of a team: the value of planning, and of keeping a clear head in the midst of chaos and danger. Perhaps they’d done both him and the Battle God a disservice by being so cautious.

  “The Warriors of Estavia are not a collection of individual champions. We’re an army; we’re soldiers. To take you out of that hierarchy could hamper your ability to work within it and you’re already far too self-centered for the council’s liking.”

  And wasn’t that exactly what they’d done, his thoughts continued: pulled him out of that hierarchy and trained him like a champion and not a like soldier? And what kind of champion could he possibly be if he had no knowledge of working as a unit? No knowledge of actually being a soldier?

  “I told Her I would fight for Her.”

  Driving the butt of his spear into the ground, Kemal shook his head impatiently, telling himself firmly that they’d made the right choice. If Brax were with them today, he might begin by carrying buckets, but once battle commenced he’d be drawn into the thick of it, driven by his oath to fight for the God who’d saved his life, regardless of his orders. And he’d be killed. He was better off at Serin-Koy If the God had other plans for his future, She would make that plain. But for now, he was safe and Kemal had other things to concentrate on. Leaning against his spear, he locked his knees and, closing his eyes, willed his mind to a state of calm preparation for battle.

  “Seer!”

  The priests of Havo had barely begun to sing the dawn when the call went up, carried along the lines of infantry to the commanders at the rear. The small, black-clad scout galloping from the hills west of Yildiz-Koy didn’t even pause as the lines opened in a ripple of movement to let her pass, then closed behind her again.

  “Seer!”

  The second scout was spotted a moment later. Like the first, he raced through the lines and disappeared, engulfed by a moving bubble of clear passage. Once he’d passed Cyan Company, Kemal set his helmet on his head, tightened his chin strap, then strung his bow. Around him, the others did the same at Duwan’s command, and after a swift glance to the right and left, Kemal nodded in satisfaction, then swung his attention back to the western hills. It would be soon.

  He felt rather than heard Sable Company begin the invocation that would ready Estavia. Closing his eyes, he imagined Kaptin Liel—androgynous features softened by the flow of pure power—surrounded by a dozen battle-seers, their swords raised and pointed toward Gol-Beyaz. When the seer kaptin’s first call came as a single, high tenor note of obligation, it rippled through his thoughts like the thread of a familiar dream, stirring Estavia’s lien within him, drawing his head up, and peeling his lips back from his teeth in an anticipatory grimace. The second call—a modulated harmony of battle-seers promising victory and violence—tightened his fingers around his weapons as it sizzled through his veins. The third—a call to arms—drew a note of response from his own throat which merged with the unit commanders to become a single voice swearing allegiance and obedience. Kaptin Liel reached out to gather them up into one large, cohesive mental force and, as the final call rose from every throat on the battlefield to become one long, undulating chord of strength and supplication, it spread across the surface of Gol-Beyaz like a heavy mist.

  Deep within the Lake of Power, Estavia began to stir and as one, Her warriors turned to the shimmer of sunrise on the distant hills.

  When the attack came, they were ready for it.

  At Serin-Koy, standing in his usual place atop Orzin-Hisar, Spar frowned, turning his head from side to side as if testing the predawn air like a nervous dog trying to catch a scent, his well-honed sense of danger making the hair on the back of his neck rise. To the east, the sun touched the sky above the dark, pine-covered slopes of the Degisken-Dag Mountains with the faintest of pale brush strokes which traced themselves across Gol-Beyaz to merge with the pink-and-orange glow rising from below. To the west, the God-Wall faithfully reproduced the bright colors of the lake’s emerging power while beyond it, the fields sparkled with dew and the distant hills showed a glimmer of green. Behind him on the battlements—to the south as it happened to be—Serin-Koy’s priests of Havo took their places, preparing to answer the blackbirds and finches already in full song and to call the village to wakefulness. But to the north, the faintest hint of lightning skipped across the sky, causing his newly strengthened abilities to buzz irritably in response. As he peered into the gloom, the northern fields shimmered like slivery-gray puddles reflecting a cloudy sky—shimmered with the movement of horses and standards—and he nodded in understanding.

  Yildiz-Koy.

  Beside him Jaq began to whine and he reached down to lay his hand on his head.

  “It’s all right,” he told him quietly. “The warriors are with Kemal and Yashar. Everything’ll be fine.”

  He never saw Incasa rise silently above the waters of Gol-Beyaz, a frightful purpose in His snow-white eyes, one hand raised above His head.

  When the God’s vision hit him, he was completely unprepared.

  It struck his mind like a physical blow, knocking him against the turreted wall with a cry. Fire rose up all around him, fire carried by dark riders on dark horses, whistling and screaming and racing toward him on the crest of a violent whirlwind. They flowed over the hillsides toward the livestock in the western pasture fields, cutting down the shepherds and their delinkon in a hail of arrow fire. He smelled burning, heard screaming, and, struggling against the fear that threatened to overwhelm his mind, he fought to call up the image of the long, steady lines of warriors he knew were there, ready and able to throw the enemy back beyond the hills. But when a single, familiar face, drawn in terror, swam before his eyes, he fell back in shock. Hieson. Sent to guard the cattle with his kuzon on this warm High Spring night. Sent because it was safe, sent because their enemies were miles away, and suddenly Spar knew: he wasn’t seeing a wakeful village guarded by lines of armed and ready defenders strengthened by a God; he was seeing a slumbering village alone, unprepared, and undefended.

  He was seeing Serin-Koy.

  His head jerked back, hitting the tower wall with an audible crack. Stars spun before his eyes and he tasted blood as his teeth snapped down on the tip of his tongue. Hands clasped over his ears to block the terrifying sounds of battle that overwhelmed his mind, he fought to clear his head; to think, to do something, to do anything, but the enormity of what he’d just discovered froze him in place. They were going to attack here. Here. Attack Bayard and Badahir, Maydir, Aptulli, Paus. And Brax. No one had seen it yet, but they were coming. They might have even reached the outer fields by now. Hieson might already be dead. And he should have seen it, he should have known it. All his life he’d known when to run and hide. All his life until now. He’d known something was wrong, but he hadn’t known what. Why hadn’t he known what? All the signs had been there. A blind beggar could have seen it. He
should have seen it. Why hadn’t he seen it?

  A cold nose shoved itself into his left ear and he grabbed Jaq around the neck, using the animal’s solid presence to thrust the shock and growing panic aside. It didn’t matter why he hadn’t seen it. He saw it now and now was all that mattered. Pulling himself to his feet, he gripped the edge of the battlements and locked his eyes on the empty hillsides beyond the western fields. “So it’s a vision,” he panted, taking a long, shuddering breath. “A big one, a new one, but just a vision. It’s no different than before, not really. Get a grip. There’s no one out there yet. It hasn’t happened yet. It’s gonna happen, but it hasn’t happened. Not yet. You’ve still got time.”

  Time to do what, the panic hovering just below the surface of his mind demanded.

  “Something, anything. Warn somebody Warn Brax. You always warn Brax.”

  Soothed by the artificially calm sound of his own voice, Spar made to turn, but his feet seemed frozen in place. Cursing himself for a useless baby, he tried to move, but deep down inside, the tiny voice that had always warned him of the approach of danger began to scream in fear as the flames rose up before his mind’s eye again, threatening to engulf his mind and he realized for the first time Brax wasn’t there.

  He smelled burning. Coming closer. Cindar was gone, Brax was gone, and he was all alone.

  Slowly his knees gave way beneath him. Pressed against the tower wall, he curled into a tight ball, rocking back and forth as the dying began to scream in his head. It was too much; they were too many. They were going to attack Serin-Koy and he couldn’t stop them. He couldn’t make an entire village run and hide; he couldn’t distract the Yuruk or drive them off. He wasn’t a fighter; he wasn’t even a seer; he was a lifter. He’d never wanted to be anything else.

  But Brax did, he thought suddenly, his practical nature finally winning out over the fear. Even though Brax wasn’t right there beside him, Brax wasn’t gone, he hadn’t left him. Brax was down there in the village, sleeping and unaware of the danger. He had to warn Brax, he always warned Brax, he had to get him to safety; that was his job, that’s what he did.

  But even as he thought it, he knew Brax wouldn’t listen; not this new Brax with a weapon in his hand and Estavia’s lien on his life, on his loyalties—on his brain, Spar’s thoughts added angrily. Brax would fight. Brax would die. He didn’t want his protection anymore. He thought he didn’t need it.

  But he did need it.

  “I see we’re in the same quandary as before.”

  “Shut up!”

  Spar lashed out instinctively, striking his fist against the hard stone of Orzin-Hisar as the voice in the faraway tower sounded overloud in his mind. The pain brought him back to himself and he glared angrily into the darkness as he sucked at one scraped knuckle.

  The voice gave a murmur of patently false sympathy. “I’ve remained silent long enough,” it replied. “And now your time has run out. There’s too much at stake to let you run and hide up on your rooftops any longer. You have to grow up today, Spar, or the God of Prophecy’s going to manipulate you forever.”

  ... something flickered past the lamps.

  ... a thousand creatures of power and need pouring into Gol-Beyaz.

  ... a rolling tide of mist and death.

  ... tumbling stones. A choking fog of smoke and dust.

  ... burning ...

  “Stop it!” Spar almost screamed out loud as the images began to tumble through his mind too fast to comprehend.

  “I’m not doing it; you are,” the voice snapped back. “Your mind is wide open, untrained, undefended, and vulnerable to any attack just like that village down there. And it will be attacked if you don’t do something right now!”

  “Like what?”

  “Like see who your true enemy really is!”

  And the vision rose up again as a choking fog of smoke and dust broiling toward him. But then the mist was suddenly blown away and he saw Graize, mounted on a snow-white pony, crest the western hills, a vast cloud of power and potential hovering over him like thunderstorm.

  He gaped in astonishment.

  Graize?

  And riding in the midst of Kursk’s lead banner, Graize let out a howl of laughter as he drank in the shock of Spar’s understanding as it hit the streams like a boulder flung into the waves. Standing in the saddle, he gave a mocking bow in the direction of Orzin-Hisar, knowing the younger boy could sense it.

  “Yes, oh, yes, soon there’ll be more than just shock,” he shouted at him, sending his hate flying back along the streams of power. “Soon there’ll be panic and screaming and villagers running about in terror like ants around a drowning anthill, and you’ll be as powerless to prevent it as you’ve always been! The spirits’ll suck out your eyeballs and throw your body from the ramparts to be trampled by my Yuruk; but not before you see me put an arrow in someone’s eye and then our precious northern busybody’ll know I’ve beaten you both!”

  The sudden image of the dark-haired figure rose up, threatening to send Graize’s mind listing to one side and he slapped the image of his stag beetle across it with an impatient gesture. He had no time for madness today and no time for ghosts, no matter how real they might be growing. No time for pathetic little dockside seers either, he sneered. He had a village to attack. With a howl of triumph, he flung one hand forward as Kursk led wave after wave of Yuruk down the hillsides.

  Atop Orzin-Hisar, the voice reached out and tore the final shred of protective caul from Spar’s latent abilities with a single, savage gesture.

  “SEE AND RESPOND!”

  And Spar’s warning vision spewed from his mind like a pillar of flame.

  Across the village, people came screaming to wakefulness as images of fire and death in the hands of the Yuruk exploded across their sleeping minds. In Bayard’s main room, the sense of sudden danger slammed into Brax’s dreams so hard he awoke with a gasp. His heart pounding in his chest, he stared uncomprehendingly into the darkness. How could the Yuruk be here, he thought fuzzily. They were supposed to be at Yildiz-Koy; all the seers had said so. Turning, he reached out for Spar and found nothing. The pallet was empty.

  Sudden danger slamming into his dreams.

  Tossing the blanket aside with a curse, he fumbled for his clothes as Bayard’s family began shouting and crying in confusion all around him then, after jerking his tunic over his head, he snatched up his weapons and ran for the back door, making for the garden wall without thought for anything but Spar.

  Outside, the village was in chaos, people running everywhere while the militia officers shouted for their troops to come together. Above the din, Brax could hear Badahir’s calm, distinctive voice calling her people to form up in the central square and he nearly checked at the sound, Estavia’s lien demanding a physical response. But he had to find Spar first; he had to know he was all right, then he would fight, he promised, just help him find Spar. The God’s presence rose in willing response, compelling him toward Orzin-Hisar, and he sprinted for the tower as its great, bronze bell began to toll.

  “Be there,” he panted. “Just like you’ve been every morning since we got here. Be there.”

  The tower’s stone bulk rose up before him and he rocked to a halt as he caught sight of a small, blond figure standing on the battlements, arms raised awkwardly toward the rising sun as if warding off a blow. He swayed dangerously close to the edge, but just as Brax was about to shout to him, he saw Jaq’s great head rear up to catch the younger boy by the back of the jacket and pull him out of sight. Heart in his throat, Brax started for the tower door, but with Spar’s safety assured, the Battle God’s lien stopped him in his tracks and he nodded in acceptance. Estavia had kept Her word, Spar was safe, now Brax would keep his word, too. Turning, he ran for the streams of militia heading for the village square.

  Badahir was shoving the adults into line when he arrived. As soon as they managed a simple cohesion, they made for the God-Wall, bows at the ready, and Brax joined them, his visi
on already covered with a fine red mist.

  “I told Her I would fight for Her.”

  “And so you will.”

  The excitement that rose with the memory drove whatever fear he might have been feeling away as they reached the wall, but rather than go over it, to his surprise, the militia began to form a long, thin line behind it. He snapped his teeth together in frustration even though he understood why. The wall was their only real physical defense; they couldn‘t, and shouldn’t, race out to face an unknown enemy; they’d be slaughtered, but everything he was wanted to leap over it anyway.

  Pulling back behind the line, he made himself take a deep breath to still the insistent internal itch that kept trying to take control of his sword hand. A good lifter never just leaped over anything, he reminded himself sternly. A good lifter waited patiently for the right opportunity; for the safe opportunity to act, ignoring need and greed alike, or he’d get pinched. A good fighter had to be the same, or he’d get killed and that would end his service to Estavia before it even began.

  “So, stop being an idiot,” he growled. “You’re Her Champion. Act like one.”

  Crouching, he drew his fingers through a muddy puddle, bringing them up slowly and deliberately to draw the outlines of the wards he painted every morning on his arms and chest: Anavatan, Estavia-Sarayi, Cyan Company, himself, Spar, Jaq, Kemel and Yasher, and Her Wall; using the familiar movements to still the buzzing in his body. Then, feeling Her lien thrumming through him in approval, he headed back the way he’d come. When he reached the end of the line, he clambered onto the wall where it met Orzin-Hisar and, using the tower’s bulk to shield himself from both the militia and the steady streams of noncombatants alike, he peered over at the empty livestock paddocks where a second line of militia were already forming up. A good lifter—and a good fighter—chose the best ground and waited for the mark—the enemy—to come to him, his thoughts continued in a deliberately lecturing tone. And the enemy would come here because although most of Serin-Koy’s livestock were out in the western pasture fields he could already see the frightened shepherds driving them back toward the safety of the walled paddocks and that was what the enemy wanted: Serin-Koy’s sheep and goats and oxen, even the horses if they could get them. So any attack they made elsewhere was a feint; the real attack would be here. Drawing his sword, he pressed the hilt against his chest, feeling the Battle God stir in anticipation of bloodshed and glory.