The Shining City (v5)

by Fiona Patton

  Word had come down that Havo’s farmers had broken ground four days ago. In less than a week, the Seasonal God’s shepherds would be moving their flocks to their summer pastures. Far to the west, the Petchan and Yuruk shepherds would be doing the same. After that, their riders would be free to make raids against the western villages and the Warriors of Estavia would move out to protect them and their livestock as they had every year. Only this year, they would also be going north and south, concentrating their strength wherever Estavia’s Sable Company seers believed the threat would be the greatest. And the threat was the greatest everywhere.

  Pausing to brush a lock of damp hair from his face, Brax glanced across the courtyard to the temple’s main fountain, sparkling brilliant silver in the moonlight and beyond that to the Seer’s Shrine. He didn’t envy Sable Company. As the months had passed, even the feeblest of the city’s street seers had seen the signs of danger looming at every turn. Throughout the winter the people had flocked to their temples demanding answers. The temples had gone to the Gods and finally received a response they hadn’t heard for centuries.

  “Prepare for invasion.”

  Anavatan and the villages along Gol-Beyaz Lake had exploded in hysterics, but under the temples’ firm leadership, they’d finally calmed down enough to swing into action, building defenses, stockpiling supplies, drilling militia to face the invaders coming by land, building new ships and recruiting sailors to face the invaders coming by water, and training anyone and everyone who might have even the slightest sensitivity to prophecy to overcome the muting effect of the Petchan sayers; throwing their strength behind their Gods, who in turn labored alongside Their followers. If the people were strong, the Gods were strong. If the people were weak; if the people weren’t ready . . .

  He shook his head, splattering a line of sweat into his eyes. They would be ready, he told himself sternly. The people would be strong, and so the Gods would be strong.

  He glanced across the darkened training yard. Since the beginning of winter, the ranks of warrior-delinkon at Estavia-Sarayi had more than doubled as the Battle God had scooped up recruits by the handful. Every senior ghazi had been roped into their education including Estavia’s Champion. Brax had thrown himself into their training with a single-minded intensity, sometimes drilling up to five troops a day, driving his body into exhaustion to still the constant, frantic buzzing of Estavia’s lien. They would also be ready. They would also be strong. But would he?

  Step strike, step strike.

  He had to be.

  Brax carried on across the yard, feeling Estavia’s lien travel through his body and along his arm to spark across his sword She’d returned to him five years ago at the feet of Her temple battlements after he’d lost it in the waters of Gol-Beyaz. The worn leather grip and comforting weight of the weapon calmed him and, by the time he’d finished a complete circuit, passing the commissary, armory tower, and infantry barracks, he was bathed in sweat; the pain in his leg radiated up through his injured elbow to thrum across his forehead, but Her lien had eased enough for him to slow, and finally stop. Gulping air through his mouth, he sheathed the sword with deliberate care, then collapsed against the side of the small training yard fountain.

  It was only then that he noticed the figure standing, half hidden, behind a tall cinar tree at the edge of the rose garden. He squinted at it.

  “Brin?”

  Detaching from the shadows, his bi-gender friend and occasional lover and fellow Cyan Company ghazi-priest, stepped forward with a smirk. “I knew I should have worn a less identifying perfume.”

  Bending down, Brax struggled to bring his breathing under enough control for speech. “Where’s Bazmin?” he asked finally.

  “Asleep.” Brin nodded toward his sword. “It’s coming well. You’re moving with a lot more flexibility in the leg.”

  “Glad it looks that way. Not in the arm, though.”

  “What does Samlin say?”

  “The same thing he always says: be patient.” Brax straightened. “Train mindfully.”

  “You?” Brin scoffed. “You might as well ask the storms of Havo’s Dance to wreak havoc mindfully.”

  “Funny.”

  “Overdo it and I’ll chain you to the bed myself!”

  Chief Physician Samlin’s warning echoing in his ears, Brax stood in Calmak-Koy’s small practice yard, dressed in leathers. His left arm was strapped tightly to his chest and he wove his sword back and forth in a series of awkward, chopping motions, testing the restrictions caused by the bindings. Every pass to the right pulled him off-balance with a streak of pain, but as he shifted his swing to compensate, he kept his expression carefully neutral. This was the first time he’d been allowed out for limited training since coming to the hospital village two months ago, and he’d no intention of giving the physicians hovering nearby the excuse of a little pain to rescind their permission. Estavia’s agitated presence had been burning a hole in his chest for days. He needed to train, to move, to do something, anything, to ease the constant, nagging feeling that he should be out on the grasslands fighting the Petchans with Cyan Company.

  Before him, his training partner, a retired Indigo Company ghazi-priest turned hospice instructor named Lerek, raised his sword. “Are you ready, Ghazi- Champion?” he asked, acknowledging Estavia’s favoritism with somber formality.

  Brax nodded sharply. Raising his own sword, he cleared his mind of distractions, both physical and mental, as the man advanced.

  Half an hour later, they called a halt by mutual agreement. Both were drenched in sweat and breathing hard. Fighting to keep his hand from shaking, Brax signaled a healer-delinkos to remove the bindings on his arm as Lerek shook his head.

  “If ferocity and a downright terrifying expression were all that was needed, you’d sweep the field, Ghazi.”

  Brax gave a sour half smile in return. “Tell them,” he panted, jerking his head at the crowd of physicians hovering outside the circle.

  Lerek shrugged. “They’re afraid you’ll pull your stitches out and undo all their healing.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You did.”

  Brax spared a glance at the blood trickling down his leg and swore as the crowd of physicians swarmed about him at once.

  They hadn’t allowed him to even pick up a sword for another three weeks.

  Brin coughed loudly, pulling Brax out of his reverie. “So, have you finished being patient and training mindfully for one night?”

  Estavia’s lien purring sleepily within him, Brax nodded. “For now,” he answered, unstrapping the shield from his left arm. His elbow felt numb and heavy, and he thrust his hand into his belt with a grimace.

  Brin watched the movement with a carefully neutral expression. “Ready for bed, then? Dawn comes early, and we have a host of young delinkon eager to catch their ghazon napping tomorrow.”

  Brax smiled. Training at dawn or not, bed only meant one thing to Brin. “Nearly,” he replied, wiping the sweat from his eyes as he glanced at the commissary. “I’m hungry.”

  Brin’s eyes twinkled. “I’ll come with you. I’d hate to lose you to some server of Oristo besotted by your beauty or some scholar of Ystazia skulking about wanting to learn what being the Champion of Estavia feels like.”

  Brax snorted. Six years ago Spar had shown him an illustration of Estavia’s first Champion, the legendary Kaptin Haldin, with lines of red-and-golden power streaming from his body. At the time Brax had wondered what that had felt like, and now he knew.

  “On a bad day it feels like all the Champion’s organs are being slowly torn out of his body in long, thin strands,” he answered.

  Brin gave him an unimpressed eye roll. “And on a good day?”

  Brax grinned. “Like sex, only a thousand times more powerful.”

  “Now there’s a challenge. Still . . .” Brin sighed dramatically. “I think you might be right. Food must come first. I could use a bit of toast and marmalade. I’m famished from just watching y
ou destroy all our enemies.”

  Brax’s expression darkened. “Only one enemy,” he corrected.

  “Then I only need one piece of toast.” Refusing to be drawn into Brax’s mood, Brin tucked Brax’s good arm in the crook of one elbow and led him firmly toward the commissary, blithely ignoring his attempt not to limp.

  Brax was grateful for the other ghazi’s tact. Refusing to glance up at a familiar shadow perched high on the top of the armory tower as they passed underneath it, he decided that ignoring things might be the best response tonight. He had enough physical challenges to struggle against without having to remember the pain of Hisar’s ethereal claws digging deep into his chest and the weakness and dizziness that had come from Its feeding. Every time the young God came too close, the memory of those sensations whispered across his ribs, reminding him that Hisar was still little more than the merging of a thousand wild and dangerously predictable spirits whose only directive was to feed. And, he told himself firmly as the echo of those sensations traveled across his chest once again, he had plenty of other things to worry about rather than wondering why Hisar was hanging about the Battle God’s temple in the middle of the night. If Estavia didn’t want the young God in Her territory, She would soon put the boots to It Herself.

  Quickening his step until Brin gave a sharp protest in response, he passed under the commissary archway without looking up.

  High above, the shadow stretched out Its wings in a shower of metallic brilliance, then settled down to wait for Brax to emerge again. Hisar had time. It was starting to learn patience as well.

  Turning Its head, It stared out across the battlements to the still waters of Gol-Beyaz watching as, far out in the center, the God of Battles mirrored Brax’s earlier moves in a slow and deliberate dance, twin swords flashing in the moonlight. Step, strike, strike. Hold. Step, strike. Turn, block, strike. Faster, faster, faster, twin swords flashing in a blur of silver light, strike, step, strike step.

  A light breeze, whispering of rain and fog, threaded across the city, and She paused, turning Her crimson gaze upon Hisar. The young God gave an involuntary shiver, but remained in view and, after a long moment, Estavia gave the faintest nod of approval in Its direction before returning Her attention to the dance.

  Hisar heard a burst of laughter coming from within the commissary and suddenly found Itself torn between the desire to join Estavia in the cool darkness, or join Her followers in the warm candlelight. Realizing that It could do neither, It thrust the accompanying unhappiness away with a violent gesture and leaped from the armory tower in a spray of golden light. It would go looking for more tower symbols, It thought angrily. That, It could do.

  2

  The Young God

  BUZZING LOW OVER THE city, Hisar swept Its metallic gaze left and right, searching for the faint promise of power that signified the tower symbols. A whisper of potential on the wind drew It north, along a series of narrow cobblestone streets until It fetched up before the iron gate of a Tannery Precinct Brothel. Peering into the tiny garden beyond, It oriented Itself to the symbol’s direction then, changing to Its golden seeming, crept inside.

  He found it etched into a clay flowerpot tucked up against the back wall and, after collecting a seed of power that almost vibrated with sexual energy, He raised Himself up and peered through a crack in the shutters with a thoughtful expression.

  Up until now, the seeds of power He’d received from the tower symbols had felt purely neutral, as if they hadn’t been left for Him at all but were instead just a by-product of drawing the symbol itself. But this seed of power had been different. This one had held a hint of supplication. Maybe. And a hint of obligation. Maybe. It was the first time He’d felt as if the person who’d drawn the symbols had actually wanted something from Him. But what? He’d never seen any of the people who’d left these secret markers all over the city. He didn’t know who they were or what they wanted. And what could they have possibly wanted from Him in a place like this? From His wandering with Spar, Hisar knew what a brothel was for, but most of them operated under the auspices of Ystazia or Oristo, and They were the Gods most people would appeal to for sexual help, not to a half-formed God of Creation and Destruction.

  The sounds of lovemaking filtered out to Him, and He cocked His head to one side. Long before He’d managed even a partially realized physical presence, He’d watched people having sex, struggling to understand their need for it. Sex often invigorated them—it certain invigorated both Brin and Bazmin—but others, like Brax, were more complicated. Brax needed to rest, not be invigorated, but sex often seemed to relax and exhaust him at the same time, helping him rest. Hisar wondered idly what the person inside was looking for tonight; invigoration or rest or just sex.

  Glancing down, He studied His male human-seeming’s penis with a slight frown. He’d never even had sex. Of course, until six years ago, He’d been nothing more than a thousand wild land spirits; born of wind and lightning and consumed by hunger. Spirits didn’t need sex. Like the Gods they needed power. And, more specifically, they needed the power of their worshipers freely given.

  Five years ago, Graize had fought and defeated that swarm of spirits, forcing them to a single sentient form that had become Hisar and bending it to his will. He’d treated Hisar’s growing consciousness as something to be used like a tool or a weapon until Hisar had rebelled against his control on the grasslands, helping Spar to free Brax. Graize had seen it as a betrayal and had turned his back on Him, spending the last nine months deep in seclusion in the Berbat-Dunya wild lands and driving Hisar away every time the young God had tried to make contact with him.

  But it hadn’t been a betrayal. It had been a carefully crafted compromise to keep Hisar’s newly formed relationships with Spar, Brax, and Graize safe. And it had worked. Hisar had been very proud of that, and one day He would make Graize understand. On the grasslands, Graize had screamed his oaths into the storm; binding him and Hisar together and forging a lien between them that would someday give Hisar access to the vast stores of power at Graize’s command. Hisar would not let that lie dormant. He couldn’t. When He became fully physical, He would need them. He would need Graize.

  And he would need Brax, too.

  Calling up the tiny seed of power He’d just received, Hisar poked sullenly at the flowerpot, feeling the rough clay scratch against His fingertips. Last year, Spar had given him the special red bead that anchored Him in the physical world, but even it wasn’t enough to grant him access to the stores of power at Brax’s command. Nothing but Brax’s worship, freely given, could do that.

  “People are drawn to him. He’s got strength.”

  Hisar nodded at Spar’s words. Everyone was drawn to him, and yet they still continued to send him into danger, putting that strength at risk. It didn’t make any sense.

  Leaning against the brothel wall in unconscious imitation of His young First Priest, Hisar remembered standing with Spar before the troop of warriors and militia that had fallen on the grasslands where Graize and his band of Petchans had ambushed Brax last season. They’d been laid out on their backs, side by side, with their weapons next to them in a gesture of respect, but the blue cloaks that covered their features were soaked in blood and the smell of death had vied with the sound of flies. There was no power there anymore; their power, like their spirits, had joined with Estavia.

  Hisar had stared down at them dispassionately. He’d seen plenty of death in His short life, both on the battlefield and off it, and had learned early on that the physical was far too fragile a vessel to hold that much power in safety. If Brax had been Hisar’s, the young God was certain that He would never have risked him that way.

  And if Brax was Hisar’s, He’d have all the power He needed to protect His city from the flocks of white-and-brown bird enemies He’d seen. He knew He would.

  Turning His head, the young God stared across the strait at the dark bulk of Burun-Hisar, the watchtower that guarded the hospital village of Calmak-Koy and
the entrance to the eastern shore. He and Spar had spent months there hovering about Brax’s bedside as he’d fought fever after fever after his injuries on the grasslands. It was there that they’d first begun to test the limits of Hisar’s own small physical experiences, moving from seeming to seeming as the mood took them, learning what they could do and what they couldn’t do.

  On a cool, autumn night, Hisar had stood on the threshold of the main healing pavilion, wearing the most physical of seemings, that of the Yuruk girl, Rayne, now a grown woman in her own right. The gray flagstones leading to the large, ornate fountain in the center of the hospital’s medicinal herb gardens had shimmered in the pale moonlight with all the radiance of a silver river. A nightingale singing in a nearby cinar tree had sent a stream of fluidly perfect notes into the still night air, and the cold caress of stone against Her bare feet had whispered through Her senses in a fluttering of peppermint-and-indigo prophecy.

  Ordinarily, Hisar enjoyed experiencing the physical world as a swirling blend of sensory chaos; it seemed more natural to Her growing understanding of the Gods and Their response to the world around Them, but She wanted more; She wanted to feel the world as an actual physical being might, so She’d bent Her attention to each sensation separately, gripping the red bead about Her neck in an effort to maintain Her focus.

  The gray flagstones and splashing fountain had reflected the silvery moonlight, almost hurting Her eyes with their brightness. The smooth stone of the threshold had sent shivers of cold seeping through Her bare feet and up, causing the fine hairs along Her arms and legs and the nipples on Her small breasts to rise in response. The night air, smelling of peppermint and clean water from the herb gardens, had tickled Her nostrils and run along the length of Her tongue in an acrid sweetness. And the nightingale, casting a tiny, indigo shadow in the cinar tree’s branches had given Her a thrill of purely auditory pleasure with its song.