The Silver Lake

by Fiona Patton

  Closing his eyes with a smile, Graize tossed a careless challenge toward Illan, before sending his own mind out to join Danjel’s above the plains. For an instant the image of a tall, red tower wavered before his eyes, but with a wave of his stag beetle, he swept it away. They would be ready when all their enemies, both mortal and immortal, arose this Havo’s Dance. Ready and happy to oblige them in battle.

  Far to the north, Illan Volinsk accepted the boy’s challenge with a cold smile. Standing before his atlas table, he moved his small collection of Yuruk pieces to the mouth of the Bogazi-Isik beside Panos’ new sea-green turtle, then ran one loving finger along the small, golden figurine already in place across the strait, before turning his attention to the bleakly gray sky beyond his window. As the cloud-obscured sun dropped below the waves, he raised a glass of mulled wine in salute toward Graize and Spar, then settled back into a thick brocaded chair to think of Panos and to wait for the drama to unfold.

  Beneath the shadow of Dovek-Hisar with her faithful mapmaker, Panos felt Illan’s thoughts whisper through her mind like a love song in the distance. Taking her silver flask from her cloak, she downed the contents, allowing herself a wistful sigh that she wasn’t back home standing naked beside the warm, sparkling waters of her own south Deniz-Hadi with Illan in her arms and with nothing more important to do than make love on the soft, musical sand of Amatus.

  But there would be time enough for that later, she promised herself, when all this Godly nonsense was resolved and her duty to Memnos was concluded. Then she could deal with the pushy old oracle and set her own designs in motion, both hers and Illan’s if they really matched as well as he’d promised her they would.

  Trailing her fingers through the cold, power-filled waters of Gol-Beyaz, she sent a thread of loving, plum-colored passion toward her northern sorcerer before settling down to wait once more, her eyes as dark as Spar’s.

  At Incasa-Sarayi, Freyiz was also waiting, although not nearly so patiently. The cold stone of the temple’s High Seeking arzhane-chamber was making her joints ache, despite the heavy woolen carpet laid down especially for her, and the incense-saturated air was causing a thousand tiny visions to spin about her eyes like mayflies. One of the visions became the now familiar tower on the northern sea, and she glared at it in peevish displeasure. Banishing the vision with a brusque wave of one hand, she hunkered down into her nest of shawls and blankets, wishing once again that she’d never left her nice warm meditation room in Adasi-Koy. But it was too late for regrets now. For good or for ill, she had heeded the call of her God as she always had and returned to Anavatan to help Him mold the future to His own desire.

  Deep within her mind, Incasa sent a mollifying trickle of cool power through her joints and she accepted it graciously as a mother might accept the apology of an errant child before turning her attention to the preparations going on all around her.

  In the center of the arzhane half a dozen delinkon attended the First Oracle, some lighting the ring of incense braziers that surrounded him like so many tiny, iron towers while others arranged his robes and cushions in the manner laid down by Incasa Himself centuries before. He looked fretful and self-conscious and Freyiz remembered how stiflingly hot and restrictive it had all felt before the years of familiarity and the pressure of her increasingly powerful visions had pushed it all into the background of her awareness, proving that one could get used to anything in time. And proving that one could also miss even the most uncomfortable of routines after years of practice, she added with a cynical snort only slightly tinged with a kind of sad nostalgia. She had sat in that very same circle for nearly twenty-five years, as the most favored and beloved of Incasa’s chosen, attended and revered for the intimacy of His prophetic touch. It was harder to give up than she’d thought.

  For a moment, she considered alerting Bessic to the danger of the tower’s presence, then dismissed the idea. The new First Oracle had enough to concern himself with right now without any perfectly reasonable advice that might come across as meddling. A High Seeking of this magnitude, coming as it did on another Deity’s most powerful First Night, could burn out the mind of a stronger seer than Bessic in an instant, something he was obviously well aware of. His forehead was slick with sweat and his eyes, already misted over with a fine white veil, darted this way and that, unable to keep still. With a sigh, she quieted her own thoughts and sent a thin line of calming power his way. He blinked in surprise; then, as his eyes met hers, he gave her a slightly rueful smile before returning his attention inward, noticeably more composed.

  Accepting a cup of rize chai laced with raki from a junior priest, she returned to her own thoughts, willing to allow herself one moment of petty satisfaction at his inexperience while, around her, the rest of Incasa’s temple-seers now took their places as the first note of Havo’s Evening Invocation signaled the beginning of nightfall.

  Beneath Lazim-Hisar, Graize stood as the dusk fell about him like a shroud. The Godling awakened at once and, with a flick of his wrist, Graize sent It shooting out into the air to ride the wind of the coming storm before turning to rouse his kazakin.

  And in Kaptin Haldin’s shrine, Spar felt rather than heard the first note of Havo’s priests echoing through his mind like a call to arms. Rising, he crossed the room, Jaq at his heels, to prod Brax with one sandaled toe.

  “Come on. We’re going.”

  Opening his eyes at once, Brax nodded.

  The lower level corridors were dark and deserted, the click of Jaq’s nails as he followed obediently behind them the only sound to be heard.

  “Everyone’s in place,” Brax said hoarsely and Spar could see the effort it took him not to turn toward the wide, marble stairwell that led up to the Infantry shrines. “I can feel it. Kemal and Yashar and the others. I can even feel Marshal Brayazi and Kaptin Liel waiting for Estavia to call them.”

  “We’ll be in place long before that happens,” the younger boy assured him. “This way.”

  He led him deeper into the temple proper, following one of the more narrow corridors he’d discovered that summer. It made its way due east, past a series of store-rooms and wine cellars until it opened up into an octagonal atrium where the white, marble walls gave way to the hard, gray stone of the outer defenses. From there, he took a winding stairway that led up to a small, wooden door at the top. It was so like the one they’d entered a year ago that he froze suddenly, the memory of the terrible swarm of spirits that had attacked them on Liman-Caddesi causing the breath to catch in his throat. The overwhelming savagery of their hunger washed over him once again, but just before their icy, clawed fingers touched his flesh, Jaq shoved his nose into his palm, jerking him back to the present. With an angry gesture, he shoved the door open with more force than he’d intended. The wind caught it, sending it slamming against the wall, and Brax shot him an exasperated glance before he retrieved it, closing it carefully behind them. Spar paid it no heed, merely moved cautiously to the edge of the battlements before turning his whitewashed gaze to the western horizon.

  Day had become dusk since they’d entered Kaptin Haldin’s shrine, the air turned a dark, sickly-green and smelling of death. As the wind sent a scattering of fine rain mixed with ice pellets scoring across his face, he felt Brax crouch down, his back against the sentry box wall. Jaq began to whine gently, and he dropped his hand down to stroke the animal’s great head as he stared past Estavia’s statue and Her temple turrets to Anavatan, feeling the hungry anticipation of those spirits that had managed to worm their way through the cracks in the God-Wall, pooling in the shadowy crevices of the city like a liquid fungus.

  He bared his teeth at them, his momentary lapse of resolve forgotten. Last year he’d been too young to do anything more than watch helplessly as they’d consumed everything in their path; this year he was no longer young and no longer helpless. The spirits would do well to realize that.

  They seemed to understand his thoughts, hunkering down in their shadowy hiding places each time
he turned his baleful regard on them, but that wouldn’t last, he knew. Soon the God of Prophecy would make His move and they would boil out of their refuge like a plague of locusts.

  Raising his face to the wind, Spar smiled suddenly. Incasa wasn’t the only Deity poised to act this night and, although he knew the God of Prophecy had taken that into account, he also knew that Gods, like spirits and people, too, for that matter, were greedy and usually acted in their own self-interest if given half a chance. A good lifter knew how to exploit that to his own advantage.

  “Greedy people are careless but they’re also really ugly if they catch you lifting their shine, so you gotta be careful and you gotta be fast. Use the crowds; keep hidden.”

  Spar smiled. He was always careful and he was always hidden.

  Sending his mind out on the wind, he felt the dusk pressing eagerly against the day. The Evening Invocations were nearly finished; at Havo-Sarayi the priests had turned to their revelry, knowing that the Seasonal God drew strength from their celebrations, Oristo’s people stood by their hearths, and Usara’s in their infirmaries, both continuing songs of power that could invoke their Gods at the slightest hint of danger. The Warriors of Estavia were still locked in the throes of their own God’s violent embrace; Spar could tell that simply by glancing over to gauge the growing barge-poled expression on Brax’s face. Ystazia’s people would be next and finally Incasa‘s, and then it would begin. Returning his gaze to the dark waters below, he felt the God of Prophecy stir as His priests prepared to bring the power of their minds together as one.

  In the arzhane, Bessic stood when Ystazia’s song finished. Raising his arms, he tipped his head back, and taking a deep breath, sounded the full bass note that began Incasa’s High Seeking, rather than the traditional Evening Invocation. One by one, the God of Prophecy’s seers added their voices to his from every rural and urban cami along the lakeshores.

  And as they sounded the note that would release the night, the sun vanished below the horizon, the night rushed forward, and the surface of Gol-Beyaz exploded as the great green-and-brown-mottled God of the Seasons shot into the air. Hair writhing in the wind, Havo cut a great swath across the sky, then streaked down to land on the western walls of Anavatan with a sound like a thunderclap.

  Below, a huge mass of spirits flung themselves at the God-Wall, hammering, squirming, and fighting to join those that had already begun to boil up from the cobblestone streets, urged on by Graize standing now and screaming in triumph at the feet of Lazim-Hisar.

  The veins standing out in his neck like streaks of fire, the First Oracle sang out the bass note once again. Glutted with power, Incasa reared up from the waves like an icy sea serpent. As the spirits broke through the wall of power, the God of Prophecy hurled his dice into their midst.

  The mass of spirits exploded over the city before suddenly being sucked into a narrow God-wrought channel leading straight to Estavia-Sarayi.

  On the battlements Brax threw his shield up instinctively as the force of the explosion flung him against the wall, but Spar, his face twisted into a mask of hate and rage, threw his arms into the air to welcome the storm’s power. It broke over their heads with a ferocity matched only by the four remaining Gods who burst from Gol-Beyaz to defend Their city. As Estavia rose above Her temple in all Her feral glory, Brax swept his sword into the air, screaming out his oaths to Her. The Battle God’s responding jolt of power shot down the blade and into his arm, outlining him in a spray of crimson light. As the spirits swarmed over the battlements toward Gol-Beyaz, he threw himself in front of them.

  Once again, he stood before an army of sharp-clawed creatures of power and need, once again they came at him in twos and threes and tens and hundreds, and once again he slaughtered them all. Their ravaged potential rained down around him in a shower of blood-soaked silver ash, blinding him with its brilliance and filling him with a vitality so pure it threatened to tear him to pieces, but he never faltered. He was Estavia’s Champion and he would not allow Her enemies to reach the lake of power. As gouts of red-and-golden fire began to stream from his mouth and nose, he screamed out his challenge to any who would oppose him.

  But this time it was the Godling who accepted it. Streaking from the clouds above, It slammed into him with a force that nearly knocked him off the wall, sucking up the streams of power as fast as they emerged. Lightning cracked above them and, for a single heartbeat the half born God and half grown Champion hung suspended as if they were recorded in Ystazia’s secret book already, but then, as the Godling made to drive its teeth into Brax’s throat, Spar threw his great, black net between them, destroying the tableau.

  “No! You won’t take him,” he shouted. “None of you will!”

  The wind rose to a screaming crescendo as the Godling spun about, shrieking in fury, but Spar stood his ground, deliberately staring into Its blazing eyes, willing It to look deep into the dark place where he held dominion despite Gods and priests and oracles, willing It to see, to remember, the trap he’d once sprung on It before the black tower beyond Orzin-Hisar. The Godling froze, but as Brax swung his sword, Incasa turned to flick a single vision toward Graize with one fine-boned finger.

  The world seemed to slow.

  Beneath Lazim-Hisar, Graize was suddenly consumed by the vision of Brax and Spar destroying everything he’d spent the last year building. With a scream of rage, he summoned his army of spirits to him. They surrounded him like a swarm of locusts, catching up his arms and legs and flinging him into the air as they had so many months before on Liman-Caddesi. But this time they served under his command, hurling him up and over the battlements toward his most hated adversary.

  Brax met him with a scream of his own.

  Close to a full manifestation now, the Godling began to shimmer with a silvery-red glow as It slowly and almost painfully began to push Its way into the physical realm. Still latched onto Brax like a giant leech, It continued to suck greedily at the gouts of power that spewed from his chest. Spar leaped forward, but was suddenly thrown aside by Incasa Himself, rising up between them like a furious leviathan, His long, white hair writhing about his head like so many sea snakes. As Spar’s head hit the wall of the sentry box with a crack, Freyiz’s voice sounded in his mind.

  “A child of great potential still unformed standing on the streets of Anavatan. The twin dogs of creation and destruction crouch at its feet. The child is ringed by silver swords and golden knives and its eyes are filled with fire. It draws strength from Anavatan’s unsworn and will be born tonight under the cover of Havo’s Dance.”

  And then a voice as cold as the deepest waters of Gol-Beyaz sounded in his head.

  “THE GOD-WALL CANNOT HOLD EACH TIME IT FALLS, THE SPIRITS BROUGHT INTO BEING AS A GOD GOD MUST TAKE ITS PLACE IN GOL-SAVE THE FUTURE.”

  The words crashed over him, threatening mind, but suddenly he found himself plunge the past where the beleaguered Gol-Yearl their Gods for protection against their enem of Ystazia crouched, bloody and dazed, o littered battlefield recording the sight of Ka and Marshal Nurcan standing on the site some day become Anavatan, Incasa hove great white bird above them, and a crea formed potential waiting to be born, a creat spirits surrounded by silver swords and go imprinted on a warrior who would one day temple, and brought into the world by the Champion. A creature who would become of Battles.

  “And, just as the God draws strength fro we perform in life, so does She draw streng deaths. In this, She is the God of Death. main.”

  Yashar’s deep, comforting voice calmed h he was standing on the bloodstained cob Liman-Caddesi, staring down at Drove’s d Incasa’s voice rang in his ears once more.

  “A FEW MUST ALWAYS BE SACRI SAVE THE REST.”

  And once again, Spar watched as a swa caught Drove up in a deadly enveloping shr him about like a rag doll, leaping upon h neck and sucking greedily at his body like lampreys, then flinging his corpse into the just as they reached for him, the vision memory of the city guards dragging Cindar’s body aw
ay, his staring eyes half concealed by a mat of shadowy gore-soaked hair, blood on their weapons and blood on the suddenly misty ground.

  On the suddenly misty ground.

  Then the battlements of Orzin-Hisar rose up before his mind’s eye and Chian, already dying, drew Spar’s mind up from the dark place as the Godling fled into the clouds, trailing a line of crimson blood.

  Trailing Chian’s blood. Trailing Chian’s death.

  Drove and Cindar and Chian.

  “Sometimes when the God requires it, we gift Them strength in the form of pure power.”

  “The Gods only care about the Sworn.”

  “NO LITTLE SEER, THE GODS CARE FOR ALL THE PEOPLE. IT’S WHAT WE DO.”

  “Unwilling followers bring the Gods no strength.”

  Raiders from the north, Petchans from the south, Yuruk from the west, and the spirits of the wild lands attacking the people of the shining city and their villages year after year. And, as the people stood before the waters of Gol-Beyaz, their prayers formed the lake spirits into six beings of protection and power.

  A child of unformed potential...

  A child of unformed spirits, if left to fight and feed unchecked would overwhelm the wall and the people. A child who would take form by imprinting on Graize and be molded into a controllable form by the deaths of Drove and Cindar and Chian.

  And now Brax.

  Before him, the older boy’s life began to falter and Spar struggled to his feet.

  Not Brax.

  Standing, Spar reached into the dark place and, pulling out another memory from Liman-Caddesi, hurled it into the wind with a strength he didn’t know he possessed.