by Fiona Patton
Staring out the southernmost window, Freyiz watched the prophetic waters of Gol-Beyaz turn from silvery-pink to silvery-blue as the final afternoon of winter began to wane. The future was still muddy and uncertain, so all the chosen champions of the Gods must be protected and all those who dipped into the streams made use of, both old and new. Brax and Spar were covered by Oristo, that left only Graize. To that end she had sent a dream to the golden-haired one from the south. Graize must be protected if the streams were to flow cleanly to any destination at all. She must do it, Freyiz had seen that clearly, and so they must form a tenuous alliance for now and worry about future conflict when it came. Creation or destruction was too close for more than just a God-child of prophecy this night.
Far to the west, standing with a small, mounted complement of Yuruk on an escarpment overlooking Anavatan’s great walls, Graize flung his arms wide with a howl of laughter as he felt the preparations of Incasa’s temple wash over him. The rising wind sent his ragged brown hair whipping about his face, and he swept up a handful of newly born spirits and flung them toward the Godling. It snapped them out of the air much as a seagull might snap up a spray of tiny hamsi, then shot down to wrap Itself about his shoulders. His pony sidestepped nervously as the Godling passed its head, and Danjel glanced over, her green eyes showing a flash of annoyance in the more feminine face she’d chosen for this night.
“Control yourself, Kardos,” she hissed. “They’ll see us if you keep that up!”
“Nonsense!” Graize shouted, sucking in a mouthful of spirits of his own, delighting in the cold burst of power that shot down his throat. “The God of Sharks already knows we’re coming! He’s holding out His hand and almost begging us to do it! It’s going to be like snapping up fish in a barrel!”
The confusing comparison threatened to send his thoughts skittering off in a dozen directions, but he slammed the image of his stag beetle up before his mind’s eye and jerked his thoughts back to business.
“Eight people; that’s all we need, my swallow-kardos,” he said, his uneven pupils glowing with an unnatural light. “That’s what I saw, and that’s what we’ve got. Eight. You and I for the present, bird and beetle, flight and fight. Rayne and Caleb for the future. That’s a sharp-toothed marten and a cunning little mouse. And Kursk and Ozan for the past, fox for craft and nightingale for song. Oh, wait. That’s six. Oh, well, the Godling can count for two. It needs to be two anyway for creation and destruction, doesn’t It?” He tipped his head to one side. “Or Brax and Spar can join in,” he allowed, “if they live through the night.” He began to giggle to himself. “Which one, which one, which one has the spirit-turtle-dragonfly-pea beneath it,” he said in a singsong voice. “Place your shine; place your shine, which one, which one.”
“Graize.”
Kursk’s firm voice snapped him back to himself for a moment, but as the setting sun suddenly shone through a break in the clouds to illuminate the blue-cast God-Wall anchoring Anavatan’s great defenses not a hundred yards away, he began to giggle once again, remembering.
As Danjel had predicted, it had taken some time to convince Kursk and Timur of the plan they’d beaten out: to take a small kazakin to the very walls of Anavatan during this, the most dangerous time of the year. It took even longer for Kursk to agree to Graize’s choice of combatants. The leader of the Rus-Yuruk had scratched at a thin scar running through the beard by his upper lip before shaking his head.
“Rayne’s old enough,” he’d agreed, “but Calebask’s still very young and very reckless. If he came to harm, his abia would skin us both. He can’t come.”
Forcing his wayward mind to stay on topic, Graize had fixed the kazakin leader with an intense stare. He needed Caleb for the game, to balance the Godling’s birthing with the mouse balancing the marten, otherwise there would be too much spleen, so youth or no youth, he needed him. “Caleb won’t come to harm if you’re with us,” he’d stated with as much sincerity as thirteen years conning delinkon on the streets of Anavatan could muster.
Kursk had frowned. “And you’ve seen this, child?”
“I have. Ask Timur, she’ll see it, too.”
And she had seen it—just as the spirits had told Graize she would. That future stream was wide and fast flowing, almost a certainty with Incasa’s plan pushing it along. And within that stream Caleb would come to no harm if Kursk were with them. But Timur hadn’t seen the trickle of blood carried along by the stream, the trickle of blood that washed over the older wyrdin’s features. Only Graize had seen that.
Now, he returned his attention to the present as Rayne poked him in the ribs to bring him back into the present. “Don’t worry, my kardon,” he said carelessly. “Everyone’s so afraid that the spirits will attack Anavatan again this year that they’ll miss our attack until it’s far too late.” Slipping off his pony, he caught up a stick and drove the point into the ground at his feet. “They’re crouched beside this deep, dark, little pool that they think is the sea monster’s front door,” he said, removing the stick to peer down at the indentation in the dirt. “And there they wait, weapons at the ready for when it pops its head out, and when it does ... wham!” He drove the stick back into the ground with so much force that it snapped in half. He glared at it for a moment, then tossed it aside. “But what they don’t know is that there’s a back door and that Incasa’s going to open it for us. The old bastard wants my Godling all to Himself, but He can’t have It. It’s mine.”
Craning his neck to see past Ozan’s mount, Caleb frowned at him. “How are you going to stop Him?” he asked.
“The same way you stop a well from eating a bucket,” he answered. “You tie a rope to the handle and draw the bucket back up after it’s drunk its fill.”
“Won’t the well see the rope?”
Graize raised a lecturing finger at him. “The best way to defeat a well, Kardos, is to use Its own arrogance against It.” Climbing back into the saddle, he turned his mount and headed down toward the God-Wall at a gallop, following a great host of silvery spirits, the Godling still wrapped about his neck like a mist-colored scarf.
Danjel glanced over at Kursk, who nodded, then she turned her own mount to follow him, Caleb and Rayne close behind. “We’ll keep that in mind, Kardos,” she said thoughtfully.
Behind her, Ozan and Kursk exchanged a cautious look.
Two miles away, two figures wrapped in furs and wool crouched beside a small fishing boat drawn up before the base of Dovek-Hisar. The one passed the time drawing maps in his mind while the other let the sand-and-grass-colored ripples caused by the Yuruk’s presence filter through her mind. As the first few heavy drops of rain began to fall, a single strand of brilliantly golden hair strayed from the depths of her hood, only to be tucked away almost primly.
“You’re very arrogant, my young oracle,” Panos said in Graize’s direction. “Arrogance is red and so is blood, but water is blue and you can’t breathe it, even if you think it might taste delicious.”
Glancing down, she studied the cold, lake water with a frown. “It tastes of ice and snow still.”
Hares made an inquiring noise and she shook her head, her black eyes narrowing. I should have stayed in Volinsk whatever that pushy old woman wanted, she
thought. I hate being cold. Leaning against the boat, she pulled a silver flask from her pocket. “But you need me to help you breathe, don’t you, so here I am. Being cold.”
Saluting the huge statue of Estavia standing silent guard above Her temple across the strait, Panos took a deep drink. “You’re cold, too, my dark warrior, much colder than my lovely warm tower to the north.”
She handed the flask to Hares who tipped it up thankfully. “Ah, well,” she sighed. “As soon as the first of Your number finishes with His plan, I can get warm and so can You. Then we’ll both be happy.” Tucking deeper into her furs, she settled down to wait.
17
The Twin Dogs of Creation and Destruction
CROUCHED ON ESTAVIA-SARA
YI’S eastern-most battlements, Brax squeezed his eyes shut as the wind sent a scattering of fine rain mixed with ice pellets scoring across his face, causing the old scar on his cheek to burn sharply. Squeezing the pommel of his new sword, he risked a glance at the western horizon, but the sky had grown so dark in the last few hours that it was impossible to know the time.
As if in answer, the notes of Usara’s Evening Invocation filtered across to him, carried by the sounds of the Hearth temple’s revelry to the southwest. He sighed glumly. It looked like this year’s First Night was going to be just as cramped, damp, and miserable as last year’s. Thanks to Spar.
Shaking the rain from his hair like a dog, he shot a jaundiced glance in the younger boy’s direction, but Spar ignored him. Only partially protected from the weather by Jaq, who’d insisted on following them outside, the younger boy stood, staring fixedly down at the churning waves of the Bogazi-Isik. And he’d stay there, too, Brax grumbled to himself, until whatever he was waiting for happened or until they were blown off the battlements. And even then Spar’d find a way to get them back up here again, so he might as well make himself as comfortable as possible.
If possible.
Digging at a drizzle of rain running down his neck and under his cuirass, Brax pressed his back against the sentry box wall and, closing his eyes against the weather, went over the day’s events.
The time had passed as quickly as Yashar’d said it would, the excitement over his oath-taking marred only by the darkening sky. As the day’d moved toward dusk, more and more people had turned their attention to the west, their expressions both distracted and concerned. When, just after noon, a spattering of hail had swept across the rooftops, Marshal Brayazi’d ordered Estavia-Sarayi locked down early.
The temple delinkon had fanned out at once, closing doors, windows, and shutters, while Brax and Spar had watched from the gallery as Sable Company’s black-clad sentinels had muscled the main gates closed. The solid boom echoing across the courtyard had caused Spar to jump nervously, but when Brax had glanced over, his mouth was set in a grim line and his eyes narrowed resolutely.
A somewhat muted early supper had followed, after which the temple had begun its preparations for nightfall. Just before Havo’s Evening Invocation, Kemal and Yashar had escorted Brax and Spar to Kaptin Haldin’s shrine past a double line of Cyan Company already armed for battle. As Kaptin Julide gave them an encouraging nod, Brax could almost feel the sense of greedy anticipation growing in the air.
Inside the shrine, however, the familiar, muted silence had settled around him like a comforting balm. Crossing the room, he’d laid his sword across the altar while Yashar had taken first him and then Spar in his usual bear hug and Kemal’d lit the mangel in the far corner. Once it burned with a steady glow, the younger man had caught them up in his own hug before staring searchingly into Brax’s eyes.
“This is the very heart of Her temple,” he said, trying to mask the worry in his voice. “You’ll be safe here. You’ve got food, drink, a pallet ...”
“And a pot,” Yashar interjected.
“And a pot,” he agreed. “Yashar and I are just one level up in the Cyan Company’s shrine. If you need anything ...”
“Which you won‘t,” Yashar interrupted again, giving Kemal a stern glance from under his bushy, black eyebrows. “You’re safe, you’re warm, and Jaq’s here to guard your dreams, so get some sleep and we’ll see you in the morning, yes?”
Brax nodded. Spar, his gaze already far away, just stroked one of the dog’s silken ears with a disinterested expression.
“Good.” Yashar turned toward the door. “Come on, Kem. Stop fretting like a mother hen, it’s nearly time; we need to get into position or they’ll start without us. Oh, and, Spar, here, I almost forgot.” Reaching out, he pressed something into the younger boy’s hand. “A game to pass the time with if you don’t want to go to sleep right away.”
Spar looked surprised for a moment, then his face lit up with such a wide and innocent smile of pleasure that Brax grew immediately suspicious, but before he could say anything, Yashar caught Kemal by the arm and drew him from the shrine. Their younger abayos gave them a last, worried glance and then the door was closed and they were alone.
Spar immediately climbed onto the pallet and, after scrunching down under the blankets, wrapped one arm around Jaq’s neck and closed his eyes with every indication of going to sleep at once. Brax regarded him mistrustfully for a moment, but finally he, too, took up his usual position beside Kaptin Haldin’s tomb, back against the altar, face raised to the great ebony statue of Estavia. The shrine was warm with the mangel burning, and slowly his head tipped back and he slept.
Spar’s eyes snapped open the moment the older boy’s breathing deepened. Bringing his hand up from the covers, he stared down at Yashar’s gift: a pair of wooden soldier’s dice, the blue of his eyes fading before a thick, black mist. Closing his fingers around them once again, he began to shake them slowly back and forth, using the hypnotic movement to draw his mind away from the warm woolen blankets and quiet, familiar sound of Jaq’s snoring, and down into the cool depths of prophecy. When he was ready, he opened his mind more fully than he ever had before.
The dark place caught him up into its enveloping embrace, stretching out before him like a great, subterranean ocean, black and still and fathomless as time itself. Running his thoughts along its mirrored surface, he drew up the memory of each and every person whose lessons he might need, much as one might draw up a catch of fish in a silken net.
First the living: Elif and Liel, both of them powerful battle-seers used to scooping up their own cache of futures and making sense of their ever shifting patterns; Elif and Liel for clarity. Next Tanay and Ihsan, the gentle warmth of their words as comforting as the knowledge they contained; Tanay and Ihsan for stability and for learning. Then Kemal and Yashar, new and unexpectedly loving abayon standing together like a pair of twin towers, willing to protect them from any and all danger. Out-matched, perhaps, but willing. Kemal and Yashar for strength. And finally Brax himself, his kardos in all but blood; both jaded and naive, wise and reckless, heedless and heeding, standing before him and standing beside him, year after year, through prosperity and drought; danger and safety; Brax for loyalty and for unity.
A light splash across his consciousness made him blink in surprise as his memory of Paus rose up before him like a young dolphin. He didn’t question it, merely added her to the whole with a practical expression devoid of cynicism for one brief instant; Paus for the certainty and purity of innocent belief.
With his living tutors now in place, Spar took a deep breath and reached down into the depths for the dead: Chian for patience, Cindar for rage, and Drove for caution.
These memories added a pale, wraithlike essence to his catch, and he considered them thoughtfully before bringing them into the whole. Then, squeezing Yashar’s dice, he smiled coldly as he reached out, very gently, for two most darkly dangerous fish in his black ocean, fish who maneuvered as easily in this world as they did in their own: Graize more for the strength of their rivalry than for his visioning, and Illan for his cold, mercenary cunning so like Spar’s own.
His catch now sparkling like a many-colored gem-stone, his eyes returned to their natural blue as the warmth of the mangel drew him back into the present.
Crouched on a rocky spit of land beneath the great bulk of Lazim-Hisar, a stone’s throw away from the pulsating blue God-Wall, Graize lifted his head as the featherlight touch of Spar’s thoughts passed across his mind. For a heartbeat he felt the warmth of a hearth fire, saw walls of white-and-golden marble rise up all around him, and then the scream of a gull swept it away once more.
Rubbing his badly damaged beetle between finger and thumb, he shrugged carelessly. He had time for neither random encounters nor meaningful messengers tonight. Maybe tomorrow when the rising sun had silenced the legion of spirits that filled his mind with their sibilant demands from far beyond Anavatan’s shining
defenses; but for now he had ears only for them as he’d promised.
Reaching up, he ran his fingers along the length of their leader, the Godling, wrapped, as usual, about his neck like a scarf. This close to Gol-Beyaz, It shimmered half in and half out of the world, its misting breath as silvery bright as Its opalescent eyes. It rumbled back at him in sleepy contentment, knowing that it was not yet time, and Graize turned his attention to his mortal companions crouched patiently on the rocks beside him, awaiting his signal.
Despite their traditional mistrust of travel by water, he’d convinced his handpicked kazakin to take a small boat down the Halic-Salmanak that morning, Ozan and Kursk rowing quietly while Graize and Danjel wrapped their movement in mist and shadows and Rayne and Caleb stared into the gloom.
But they needn’t have worried. This close to Havo’s Dance, Anavatan was not interested in the north, only in the west. They’d come ashore an hour ago, drawing up the boat, and sharing a loaf of bread and a round of sheep’s cheese washed down with a skin of kimiz before settling down to wait for nightfall. Now, Ozan played a quiet and melancholy tune on his kopuz while Kursk methodically tied a dozen loose knots into a braided piece of hemp; Rayne and Caleb lay sleeping, curled up together, wrapped in their aba’s sheepskin coat, with their fur caps pulled tightly over their eyes, dreaming of riding and of fighting; Danjel sat, back pressed against the tower wall, apparently asleep as well, but Graize could feel the bi-gender wyrdin’s mind racing across the Berbat-Dunya, gathering up their army of spirits for the attack that was to come.