The Silver Lake

by Fiona Patton

  They met with another crash of steel and power. Brax bore down, forcing Graize toward the ground, his lips drawn back from his teeth in a feral grimace. The other boy snarled back at him in unbridled hatred, then screamed out a single word.

  Atop Orzin-Hisar, Spar looked up to see the power become a savage-clawed creature of rage and hunger streaking from the clouds above. He stood frozen for an instant, the memory of Liman-Caddesi catching his breath in his throat, but then, as Chian’s mind wrapped about his in a mantle of strength, he flung their combined power out like a sling, spinning it into a great net of darkness to entangle the creature in mid-strike.

  Shrieking in fury, It tore at the net’s black strands while, from the ground, Graize surged upward, knocking Brax away with one blow. He gave a piercing whistle, and just as Estavia turned to face this new threat, a whirlwind of spirits spewed forward to obscure Its presence. She waded into their midst, shredding as many as She sucked in and showering Brax and Graize with their tattered, half-physical bodies. Spar and Chian held their ground against the creature as It twisted about to batter at their minds while Graize sent a hail of tiny spirits against them like a cloud of gnats. Chian’s already weakened abilities began to buckle. The creature renewed its attack, jerking just enough of its sinuous body from the net to sink its half-formed teeth into Chian’s cheek. The former battle-seer faltered, but as a spray of blood caught Spar across the face, his eyes snapped open almost unbearably wide and he saw the past.

  The shining waters of Gol-Beyaz began to churn as the lake dwellers’ prayers for prosperity and power formed a dual future of creation and destruction. Across the wild lands a host of spirits driven by the rage and pain of a latent seer came together as one, and within the lake of power Incasa formed a vision to mold a God: an unformed child of power and potential born under the cover of Havo’s Dance. Spar saw his own part in Its birthing, saw what might become his own part in Its fate and then, as Chian’s strength began to fail, he saw behind the battle-seer, a single, shining path leading down into a darkness so total it froze his bones to look at it. Together, he and the creature stared into its depths, watching as a shimmering black tower began to take form, and together they felt Incasa’s sudden consternation as He, too, saw this new, dark future. He raised His dice, and then a white-eyed man standing in the window of a tall, red tower rose up between them.

  For a heartbeat, he and Spar stared across the waters at each other. The man beckoned, but mesmerized by the darkness, Spar turned away and the man held up a marble figurine of a mounted seer in sarcastic salute before turning to send a spike of warning across the sea so hard it slapped against Spar’s mind with a crack as it flew past.

  Below the wall, Graize’s uneven pupils snapped open at the contact. For a moment it seemed unfamiliar and then he recognized the mind of the northern sorcerer. He almost refused to heed his warning, but as the man stripped away the mist around the streams to show him what would occur if the God of Prophecy took hold of his new Godling, he gave a reluctant whistle to call off Its attack. Caught up in Spar’s visioning, It resisted at first, then turned, trailing a line of crimson blood and ebony power behind It, and shot through Spar’s now-ragged net to lose Itself in the clouds.

  As Brax surged to his feet to renew his attack, Graize turned and ran for his mount as well. The battle was won, dozens of sheep and cattle were taken, and the village was burning. It was enough. Holding the Godling’s presence in his mind, he gave the signal and the Yuruk wheeled about and galloped back to the western hills behind him.

  At Yildiz-Koy, Danjel felt Graize break off the attack. She gave a long, undulating whistle to call her own kazakin back from the God-Wall, then turned and vanished behind the hills. As Bronze Company gave chase, the infantry slowly lowered their arms. There was silence on the field.

  Pressing two fingers against the bridge of his nose to stem the trickle of blood caused by Spar and Chian’s violent contact, Kemal glanced up as Yashar pushed his way through the milling militia to his side.

  “It was a feint,” the older man said bluntly.

  “I know.”

  “Why didn’t they know? Why didn’t Sable Company see it?”

  Kemal just shook his head.

  “They should have seen it,” the older man insisted. “Then we never would have ...” His deep voice broke over the words. “We thought they’d be safe, Kem, and we left them there all alone.”

  “I know.” Handing his helmet to Duwan, Kemal stripped off his cuirass and dropped it to the ground. “Come on,” he said darkly. “We have to find out what happened and then we have to get back there.”

  With Cyan Company falling in immediately behind them, the two men ran in search of Kaptin Liel.

  On the field of Serin-Koy, Her expression as sated and sleepy as a well-fed house cat, Estavia watched the Yuruk retreat, then reached down to draw Her fingers through Her young Champion’s dust-and-sweat-encrusted hair, before slowly disappearing.

  Brax stood watching Her pass with a dazed expression, but as the golden presence of Kaptin Haldin gradually faded along with Her, he gave a long, shuddering breath and sank to his knees, one hand pressed tightly around his wounded arm.

  On the battlements, Chian drew Spar’s mind up from the depths of Gol-Beyaz with his final breath before the wake of the Battle God’s passing burned his own mind to ashes. Spar’s eyes slowly returning from white to blue, the young seer stared up at the place where the Godling had disappeared, his expression blank and shocked then, with one hand clasped around Jaq’s neck and the other holding a dead man’s hand, he deliberately closed his eyes, allowing his mind to drift back down to the edge of the dark place where Chian had dwelt for so long.

  At Cvet Tower, Illan Volinsk laid one finger atop Spar’s figurine before very gently pushing it over on its side with an expresion of genuine regret. For a moment, he considered removing it from the board entirely, but then shook his head. The streams had become so muddy at this point that the boy might just survive with enough of his abilities left intact to influence the newly formed God of Creation and Destruction. Spar had the potential to affect the streams of possibilities and that potential had not been completely destroyed. Incasa had seen it, too, and despite the very real danger to His power base, Incasa might still have a use for Spar, as damaged as he was; the oldest of the Lake Deities was a greedy old bastard after all. Like all gamblers, the God of Chance liked to hedge His own bets and Graize wouldn’t be nearly enough insurance for Him.

  “Any more than he would be for me,” Illan mused aloud. Spar might never trust him now, but that possibility hadn’t been completely destroyed either. It was something to consider as the game progressed.

  As was the new possibility of gaining Graize’s trust, his thoughts continued. His acceptance of Illan’s aid on the battlefield of Serin-Koy was encouraging. Lifting the young wyrdin’s figurine from Serin-Koy, he set it back in its place beside Gol-Bardak. However unstable, the boy had, nonetheless, done very well in his first engagement. He’d remained focused on one clear and simple vision, had advanced toward it along the cleanest stream possible, and achieved his goals: the Yuruk now believed in his prophetic and leadership abilities and the Godling was well on Its way to a controlled, physical awakening outside the influence of the Gol-Beyaz Deities. Illan would soon need to have a new figurine created.

  Casting his gaze across the board, Illan nodded in satisfaction. The streams were progressing exactly as he had foreseen. Estavia’s battle seers had been easily herded from the south to the west like a flock of sheep driven from summer to winter pasture with their warriors obediently following along behind like so many sheepdogs. Now it was time to herd them back again as the mysterious ships sighted in the Deniz-Hadi inlet that spring were about to enter the game. He’d dreamed of them and their very special passenger that night.

  Reaching below the atlas table, he retrieved a polished olive wood box before turning toward the sound of footsteps. His eyes cleared as
Sergeant Ysav entered the room.

  “You sent for me, sir?” the older man asked.

  Illan inclined his head. “A ship from Skiros will be arriving within the hour, Vyns. Take an honor guard to receive it and return with the envoy and his retinue at once.”

  “Sir.”

  “They’ll be dressed as Ithosian merchants,” Illan continued, setting the box carefully on the table. “But don’t treat them as such,” he cautioned. “The envoy’s a powerful general and cousin to King Pyrros who’s conquered much of the southwest coastline of the Deniz-Hadi Sea in the last two years. You’ll remember him: Memnos of Taurus.”

  “I do, sir. He fought with your ducal father for three years against Rostov. Part of his martial training as I recall.”

  “Yes.” Illan’s expression warmed. “He taught Dagn and me to sail in the southern manner when I was five.”

  “I remember, sir,” Ysav groused. “I nearly drowned that summer. So did you.”

  “Nonsense, neither of us were in any danger.” Illan turned. “He’ll be traveling with a bodyguard of half a dozen soldiers and one formidable seer; you’ll know her by her eyes.” His own paled slightly. “They’ll be unusually dark, unlike those of the northern seers, Vyns. Do not meet her gaze. Stronger men than you have lost themselves in the power of her abilities.”

  “I’ll remember that, sir.”

  “Have the second level made up with the southern-facing bedroom for the seer and the northern for the envoy. The main storage room will need to be cleared for the guard and the smaller made up as a private dining room.”

  “And the ship, sir? Will it need to reprovender?”

  “Likely. Offer whatever fresh water and stores they require for the return voyage. I don’t imagine they’ll wish to sail on to the capital when their business is complete. They’ll not want to waste the fighting season any more than I do.”

  The sergeant glanced up with an expectant expression and Illan chuckled. “Yes, Vyns. The game is moving swiftly. We may be sailing against Anavatan sooner than you think.”

  “My lord?” The man’s countenance brightened at once.

  “Yes, so treat the envoy well. He’s the key to Volinski mobilization.”

  “I will, sir.”

  As the sergeant left to carry out his orders, a new spring in his step, Illan opened the box’s delicately wrought golden lid and drew the first of a dozen intricately carved single-masted warships from their velvet settings. He placed each one in a circle around the figurine of Anahtar-Hisar, then lifted a small figure beautifully wrought in gold before closing the box with a satisfied expression. The game was moving very swifly indeed.

  As he had predicted, the envoy from the southern maritime realm of Skiros arrived within the hour. Illan met them in the small private audience hall on the first floor, coming forward smoothly to embrace the heavyset older man who strode into the room well ahead of three others.

  “Memnos,” he said with genuine warmth in his voice.

  The man returned the embrace, then held him at arm’s length for a moment before smiling in return. “Prince Illan. You look well.”

  “As do you. It’s been a long time.”

  “Too long. I was sorry to hear of your father’s death.”

  “Thank you. We received your mourning gift, and King Pyrros‘. It was generous of His Majesty.”

  “He remembers his friends, as your father did.”

  “Indeed. And I hear‘you’ve become a father yourself.”

  “I have, with a brood of four already. This is my eldest, Viktor.”

  Illan inclined his head as the youth standing just behind Memnos’ right shoulder bowed. “A Volinski name, Memnos?” he asked.

  “To honor the man who treated me as a son so many years ago.” Memnos now gestured an older man forward. “This is my cousin Hares.”

  “Ah, the famous mapmaker,” Illan said with a smile. “Your reputation for accuracy and beauty precedes you even across the northern sea.”

  Hares bowed. “You’re too kind, Highness.”

  “And,” Memnos continued, “may I introduce you to Panos.”

  The figure from last night’s dream now stepped forward. She was dressed as an Ithosian sailor, but her eyes were as black as onyx, giving her thin face a mysterious, otherworldly cast. Illan met her deep, swirling gaze with a guarded one of his own, but it was her hair, as bright as spun gold beneath her plain woolen cap, that drew his attention. It was said that only Pyrros of Skiros threw children with hair the color of the summer sun, but only a fool would point that out as King Pyrros of Skiros was, as yet, unmarried—a ploy to keep his allies hoping to make a political match with him. Illan bowed politely as one would to an equal, taking in her measure as she took in his.

  “Be welcome in my home, Panos,” he said formally. “No door shall be closed to you if you desire it to be opened.”

  She smiled suddenly, the years falling away to reveal a youth of seventeen or eighteen at best. “Thank you, Highness. I may avail you of that offer. I’ve heard a great deal about the prophetic gifts of the Volinski seers,” she said, moving her gaze languidly up the length of his body.

  “And I those of the Skirosian oracles,” he replied.

  “And I,” Memnos interrupted pointedly, “have heard a great deal about the skill of the Volinski vintners, but I’ve yet to see any evidence of it.”

  Illan laughed. “My apologies. Come, sit, eat, drink, and rest from your long voyage.”

  An hour later, when his guests had eaten their fill, Illan sat back, turning a wineglass between his finger and thumb, watching as it caught the last of the evening sun in its crystal depths. “I trust your journey was uneventful,” he observed.

  Memnos shrugged. “The trip across the Deniz-Siyah was as cold and damp as I remembered it to be. Gol-Beyaz was warmer, however, and more interesting. The villages have grown prosperous in the years since I passed them last.”

  “Prosperous,” Illan agreed, “and complacent.”

  “They look to have good reason. Anahtar-Hisar was an impressive sight, very large and very tall, but the three towers at the mouth of Anavatan’s strait, now those are truly a work of military prowess. I was sad that Viktor and Panos did not get to witness the fabled chains of Oristo. When were they last laid across the waters, in your great-grandmother’s time, wasn’t it?”

  Illan nodded. “Ivagn Volinsk was a pirate at heart. She raided the coastlines of the Deniz-Siyah for much of her reign. The fleet she took up the Bogazi-Isik strait was the largest of its time.”

  “They say she brought a piece of Siya-Hisar home with her,” Hares noted.

  “Yes. It’s housed with the ducal regalia in the capital.”

  “I’d love to see it someday.”

  “I should be only too happy to show it to you. Any season but this one, of course.”

  “And on that note,” Memnos said, straightening in his chair. “I’ve brought you a gift.” He gestured and Viktor passed him a long, leather case tied with a silken ribbon. Inside was a creamy-smooth vellum map finely drawn with colored inks and gold and silver embossment. “The Deniz-Hadi,” he said with real pride as the two youths held it up to the light. “Made by Hares, of course.” He gestured at the other man who smiled diffidently.

  “It’s beautiful,” Illan breathed. “I’m particularly impressed with the areas outlined in red. The coastal holdings of the Skirosians?”

  “Obviously,” Memnos grunted. “As you can see, we now control the bulk of the western shore, and all of the southwestern islands. Pyrros is ready to move on Thasos and Ithos next season, but this, as you know, will alert the Gol-Yearli and their Warriors of Estavia to our growing military strength.”

  “Yes,” Illan agreed. “They might even respond in force if Thasos called for aid; they’ve been trading allies for many years.”

  Memnos gave an elegant shrug. “They might,” he allowed, “but they’re a walled people with a walled people’s mentality.”
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br />   “And Skiros?”

  “We’re a maritime people.”

  “The Gol-Yearli have a marine force.”

  “They have a lake force; it’s not the same thing.”

  “So you don’t assume they’ll be any threat to your designs on Thasos and Ithos?”

  “None at all.” Memnos sat back. “Especially if the Volinski are as prepared to throw their support behind us as I’ve been given to understand that you are.”

  “We are.” Illan bent toward the map. “The duc would like nothing better than to come to the aid of the man who once tried to drown his overly-ambitious little brother.”

  “He could try to drown mine,” Memnos suggested absently. “He’s more ambitious than you and much less useful. All he can do is lead troops.”

  Illan laughed politely. “In the meantime,” he said, returning his attention to the new map, “I’ve been in negotiation with the Petchans of the Gurney-Dag Mountains,” he said pointing to the area just northeast of the Deniz-Hadi. “For a price—which I’ve already paid—they’ll cease their raids on the southern villages this season so that the Warriors of Estavia will keep their focus north where the Yuruk nomads have been testing the skills of a new military leader. The Battle God’s people have already drawn the bulk of their fighting force away from the southern towers, so you’ll have no trouble from that quarter if you move quickly. Thasos and Ithos may call for aid, but the Gol-Yearli will be too busy to answer with anything more than foodstuffs this season.”

  “And their oracles?” Panos asked. “They won’t see through this strategy?”