The Silver Lake

by Fiona Patton

  Illan smiled. “Their oracles will be all too occupied with other business this season. Will you have another glass of wine?”

  She smiled back at him, her black eyes sparkling in response to his obvious challenge. “Yes, thank you, I will.”

  Later, after the men had retired, Illan found Panos where he’d expected to, standing on the rocky shore beneath Cvet Tower, staring out at the waves and listening to the faint sounds of merriment coming from the ship at anchor beyond the point. She’d removed her cap, allowing her hair to spill out across her shoulders like a golden mane. They said nothing for a long time until, finally, Illan glanced over at her.

  “And how did you find the journey, Oracle?” he asked formally.

  She turned her dark, fathomless eyes on his face.

  “Gol-Beyaz tingled,” she answered. “I could feel it singing in my mind.”

  “What did it say?”

  “Come and lose yourself in my embrace, and be one with the Gods.”

  “Naturally you did not obey it.”

  “Naturally. But I was tempted. It sang so sweetly, and the song was so familiar, like honey on my tongue, once tasted, never forgotten.”

  “I’m not surprised. They say the Oracles of Skiros are the children of the Gods,” he noted.

  She shrugged. “I’m from Amatus.”

  “That’s far to the east. Pyrros has a long reach these days.”

  She gave him a shrewd glance but made no answer. “I felt a lot of activity beneath the waves,” she noted after a time. “Its marble floor was alive with music and dancing. Is it always so energetic?”

  “These are unusual times.”

  “How so?”

  “The Lake Deities have birthed another of their number.”

  “Ah, yes, my little sand swimmer.” She turned, her golden hair spilling across her shoulders. “I’ve brought you a gift, my tall tower prophet,” she said. “Would you like it now?” Her black eyes were teasing, but before he could respond, she pressed an oilcloth-wrapped object into his hands.

  Opening it, he marveled at the small marble sea turtle. “It’s beautiful,” he said.

  “It’s for your prophecy, so that you might keep an eye on your new God. They can be tricky, you know... Gods.”

  “Yes.” He met her gaze deliberately, feeling the heat of her regard wrap about his mind like a balm. “But It will not be so easy to mold to Their desires as they imagine.”

  She stepped closer, lifting her face to his. “And why is that?” she asked.

  “There are other desires at work.”

  Her laughter fell about him like raindrops in the moonlight. “Desires such as yours?” she asked.

  Reaching out, he ran his fingers through her hair, marveling at how vibrant and alive each individual strand became under his touch. “Yes, mine,” he answered, “and others. Perhaps yours.”

  “Perhaps,” she allowed. “But mine involve the southern sea. What possible interest might I have in more northerly climes?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to swim in the waters of Gol-Beyaz without fear of losing yourself in its embrace? To see if you might draw up some of its legendary power to aid in the working of your own will? With Anavatan in ruins and the Gods sorely weakened, this is entirely possible.”

  “The thought of losing myself in any embrace is no fear,” she breathed. “It’s a heady challenge, like a deep, dark wine. But won’t these Gods have seers and oracles of Their own in place to prevent this very thing?”

  “Of course. But of the two most dangerous, one is old and one is young. Little match for the two of us together.”

  “And the rest?”

  “Are of no consequence.”

  “I see.” She smiled demurely up at him. “And what would I have to do for this delicious little swim,” she purred.

  “Perhaps the swim itself would be payment enough,” he answered, “if it occurred at just the right time to suit us both.”

  “And how would you ensure that it was?”

  “Well, I would have to study the matter... intimately,” he answered.

  He leaned down to kiss her and she met his lips with a smile.

  “Mm. I like a man who studies his subject,” she murmured. “The more intimately the better.” Taking his hand, she led him back to the tower.

  Standing discreetly in the window above them, Hares accepted the gold coin Memnos ruefully handed him. Panos had a great many more weapons than just her eyes, he mused, as Prince Illan of Volinsk was about to discover.

  14

  Visions

  AIM, DRAW, RELEASE. “See the target.”

  Feel the target.

  “Don’t see the enemy; see only a target.”

  The enemy is the target. Always see the enemy.

  “Aim, draw, release.”

  Ignore everything but the target.

  “Delon.”

  Birin-Kaptin Arjion’s voice feathered across Spar’s concentration with barely a ripple to mark its progress as he squinted down the length of the arrow shaft.

  Go down deep to the very edge of the dark place. See the enemy from there.

  “Spar.”

  He blinked, coming up just far enough for his inner sight to ring the practice dummy in a silvery-white glow.

  “Spar, release.”

  Release.

  The arrow streaked forward to join a dozen others in the very center of the target. With a cold smile, Spar lowered his arm, allowing the surrounding physical sensations to return to the forefront of his mind. Sound returned first: the rhythmic thumping of the delos-drums from across the temple’s central training ground, the grunts and explosive breaths of those training, the ringing of steel against steel; his own breathing, his own heartbeat. Then odors: jasmine and magnolia, leather and sweat. Finally sight: flagstones and dust, Jaq, ever vigilant, standing to one side, Arjion, his usually stern demeanor marred by the faintest hint of approval, looking down at him. The man gave one brisk nod before gesturing at the practice dummy.

  “Good aim,” he said gruffly. “But you’re still too slow. Go again.”

  As Spar pulled another arrow from the quiver at his back, he felt his mind return to the dark place.

  Concentrate.

  “Now concentrate.”

  All sensations faded once again.

  “Concentrate. Are you concentrating?”

  “Yes ”

  “You don’t seem to be. Concentrate properly.”

  Elif’s voice, nagging, pressing, training as much as he would allow her to; the dark place often repeated lessons he’d already learned from Elif, Yashar, Cindar, even Chian from the short time they’d had together in their minds.

  Aim, draw, release.

  The arrow streaked toward the center of the target and, expression blank, he reached for another.

  It had been four months since the battle at Serin-Koy. Four months since Yashar, finding him sitting vigil by Brax’s bedside in the infirmary, had caught him up in a desperate bear hug and practically squeezed the breath out of him. Four months since they’d returned to the temple of Anavatan with the rest of Estavia’s infantry while Bronze and Sable Companies had gone chasing off after the supposedly ill-trained nomads who’d wounded their pride. And four months since Chian had shown him and the strange God-creature the dark place where he could protect his mind and his powers from the spirits who would destroy him and the seers who would use him. The dark place on the very edge of death.

  Spar’s eyes narrowed. Four months: most of Havo’s High Spring and all of Ystazia’s Low and Estavia’s High Summer, spent avoiding the scrutiny of seers and priests. The first few days after the fighting had been easy; the Battle God’s commanders had been too busy hurling accusations and questions at each other to bother about anything else, but that single moment of power on the battlements with Chian had marked him as a latent seer of powerful ability and, eventually, they’d come looking for him.

  “They’d addle his brains with their
visioning so fast he’d go mad from the strain.”

  Spar snorted. He hadn’t spent nine years ensuring the western dockside marks underestimated him for nothing. He’d been ready for them and it had been ridiculously easy. Arms clasped tightly about Yashar’s neck, he’d stared dazedly back at Kaptin Liel. One tiny shudder was all it took to have his new abayos break off the interview with a warning growl. After that, the dark place had provided him with all the protection he needed. They couldn’t reach him there. Nothing could.

  He shook his head irritably. Like Estavia’s seers, the spirits of the wild lands had discovered his abilities and constantly pressed against his mind, scrabbling at his defenses like rats in the night. The God-creature was there, too, hovering just out of reach, drawn to Brax by the blood he’d shed at Serin-Koy, and drawn to the black tower It and Spar had seen together but afraid of the net Spar had built to entrap It. He could feel It, pacing back and forth beyond his dreams, waiting for him to lower his guard, but that was never going to happen. Not again. Brax needed him. The God-creature could come to him, but on his terms only.

  Spar frowned. Everyone would come to him on his terms only from now on.

  The sound of a familiar curse broke into his thoughts, causing him to turn his gaze to where Brax was practicing shield work with Bazmin in the center of the training ground. His hair and clothes were drenched with sweat, but he advanced on the older delinkos with an intensity so aggressive that only Spar could see the fatigue underneath it. He frowned.

  After the battle of Serin-Koy, Bayard had found Brax lying facedown before the paddocks, one arm twisted unnaturally beneath him, his hair and clothes covered in a sticky patina of blood and fine, silver-colored ash. He’d carried the unconscious boy to the infirmary in Orzin-Hisar, but even after the village’s physician-priests had sewn and splinted his arm and forced a horrible-smelling concoction down his throat, he’d just lain there, pale and unmoving, staring vacantly at the ceiling. Finally, Spar had brought Jaq in to cover him in dog spit. Then his face had twisted into a familiar expression of annoyance, his right hand had risen weakly to ward off the dog’s ministering tongue, and his eyes had finally come back to life. More relieved than he’d wanted to admit, Spar had glared down at him.

  “Were you asleep during the ‘carry a shield’ lecture?” he’d spat.

  It was High Summer before Brax could carry any kind of a weight with his shield arm despite Usara’s priests.

  His left arm. Don’t get into the habit of seeing the world from the warrior’s point of view. It limits you.

  His own voice now, not the voice in the tower’s.

  Spar shrugged anyway. For Brax, it was his shield arm, he reminded himself. He’d given up their old life; their old point of view for the chance to die young so that the God of Battles might smile at him. Once back in Anavatan he’d thrown himself into his training with a new strength of purpose that only Spar recognized as a desperate pretense that he was fit and whole. Everyone else thought he’d been blessed by Estavia and treated him like some kind of mystical hero raised from the dead.

  Like Kaptin Haldin raised from the dead.

  “If you ever tear up a book again, you’ll wish you were dead. What the bugger do you think a shield is for?”

  Spar had dropped the ragged illustration on Brax’s chest in the infirmary the next day with a baleful expression and at least the older boy’d had the decency to look contrite. Not that it mattered. Blessed or not, he’d set himself on a path that would get him killed unless Spar could prevent it. He’d better hope that Spar could.

  Expression wrathful, Spar sent the arrow whistling toward the practice dummy and, even without concentration; it buried itself in the very center of its chest.

  “Lucky throw.”

  “My ass, he’s the best shot in dockside.”

  Spar’s eyes lightened at the memory; Brax protecting him from Cindar as he always had, protecting him, defending him, looking out for him.

  “He needs a new jacket.”

  “Now, then, clothes. Do you mind castoffs for the time being?”

  Lifting his arm, Spar measured it against the arrow shaft in his hand with a thoughtful expression. Tanay had made sure they didn’t wear castoffs for long, but he’d still need another jacket by this autumn. Blessed by good food and warm blankets, they’d both grown two inches that summer; he’d ripped the back of his tunic getting it on last week, and Brax had gone through three pairs of sandals in four months. It was unlikely either of them would ever be as big as Kemal, never mind Yashar, but Brax was already filling out, the pinched, sallow cast that hunger and suspicion had stamped on his features slowly fading before confidence and security.

  Spar snorted cynically. It was fading before pimples and facial hair, both of which were making Brax unbearable in the mornings. He was aging, too, but you didn’t see him obsessing over his looks, he thought, shaking his head.

  “I’m going to finish my tea. If you’d like to join me, there’s a cup on the shelf there and the pot’s beside you.”

  He smiled faintly. Eleven days after they’d returned to Anavatan, Tanay had brought him to the kitchens for a special meal of roasted lamb kebaps, halva, and lokum to celebrate his tenth birthday. Apparently, the priests of Oristo knew these things, but Spar had always suspected that, with all the excitement over Brax, she’d just wanted him to feel special. He didn’t mind. He already felt special when he was with her. That was enough.

  Besides, around here special was overrated, he thought as he watched Brax take a blow to the shield that nearly sent him flying. Face set in a carefully neutral expression to hide the pain the blow had caused him, he advanced on Bazmin again and Spar shook his head; around here, special caused bruises and broken bones.

  Beside him, Arjion called an end to the archery practice and, after carefully unstringing his bow, he turned and made his way through the pairs of training warriors, Jaq at his heels. He was the youngest delinkos ever allowed on the training ground, thanks to Brax and his unswerving belief that Estavia had brought them both here for some great purpose. That belief had put a specially shortened bow in Spar’s hands a full two years before most delon became proficient with a sling, a weapon he’d mastered years ago. The infantry fighting masters had been so impressed with that and his abilities with a knife—abilities any half decent lifter his age had managed—that there was talk about beginning him with a short sword in a few weeks.

  A scornful expression crossed his face as he took the stone steps to the infantry quarters at a run. Spar had no intention of learning any other weapon earlier than he had to. He’d had seen what happened when you faced the enemy at any age and that wasn’t going to happen to him. He’d been raised as a thief and thieves didn’t face their marks, and although he might not be thieving anymore, he didn’t see any reason to change that basically sound strategy.

  The dark place agreed.

  “Never let them see you. If they can’t see you, they can’t identify you to the Watch.”

  Cindar’s words, spoken before the raki had addled his instincts. The dark place often threw up images of the first father he’d ever known although it always made him feel vaguely uncomfortable and guilty. Sometimes he put Yashar’s face in front of them, sometimes Brax‘s, if he didn’t want to see it, but he didn’t do it often; Cindar’s words were usually too sensible to ignore, especially now that he was surrounded by teachers who believed the best way to survive a battle was to kill the enemy.

  “The best way to survive a battle is not to be in one,” he thought derisively, “as a warrior or a seer or anything else; and no gloried city guard’s gonna tell me any differently.”

  Seated across the courtyard, Elif turned her milky-white gaze in his direction. The painted protections on her cheeks seemed to glow ominously and he ducked quickly through the infantry doorway, only pausing once he was well inside the cool corridor.

  “And no four-hundred-year-old battle-seer is either,” his thoughts continue
d as he headed through the dormitory wing. He’d made that decision when he’d come to after the fighting, still clutching Chian’s cold fingers on the battlements of Orzin-Hisar. All their training only got you crippled and finally killed. Chian had shown him that.

  With that in mind, he’d managed to avoid both Elif and Liel—after the seer-kaptin had returned from the wild lands—for nearly thirty days, retreating to the dark place when he couldn’t physically retreat to a dark corner or a shadowy rooftop. But finally Brax had caught up with him on the western wall overlooking the mouth of the Halic-Salmanak as he’d known he would.

  The older boy had climbed up beside him and Jaq, leaning his back against the cool stone of the corner sentry box. Setting his left elbow carefully into his lap, he’d stared out at the city’s many rooftops, watching the flocks of starlings turn and wheel in the sky, with a speculative expression.

  “You can’t see them from here,” he said after a while.

  Spar’s eyes tracked across Brax’s face suspiciously without moving his head.

  “The Western Trisect docks,” the older boy explained. “They’re too far up the strait.”

  A sarcastically raised eyebrow was Spar’s only response and, a faint smile quirking the corners of his mouth, Brax leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

  “ ’S a hot day,” he noted after a few moments.

  Spar just shrugged.

  “If we were still on the street, we’d be down at the docks right about now, I guess,” Brax continued. “Sitting in the shade under a pier; maybe sharing an apricot or a few dates, or walking in the shallows looking for fish-hooks or buoys. Hey, you remember that fishmonger’s cat that used to go swimming in the surf, looking for baby crabs?”

  Spar nodded warily, but Brax just smiled. “Yeah, it’d be too hot to work for a couple of hours anyway,” he continued. “Not until after the sun had set a little.”