The Shining City (v5)

by Fiona Patton

  Taken separately, each sensation meant little beyond itself, but Spar had said that physical beings did more than just react to each sensation separately. They put them all together to interpret their surroundings; this night, a clear, autumn breeze smelling of growing things and a bird singing without fear of cat or owl. A warm night, a safe night, a night where even the slightest hint of danger could be detected at once.

  And for a seer, young God or otherwise, a night of the subtlest prophecy only. A faint warning chill and the fluttering of silver wings in the distance casting tiny indigo shadows across the sweet, silvery peppermint song of autumn. Danger might be coming, but it wasn’t here yet. They still had time.

  Then. Not so much time now, Hisar acknowledged. Taking one last peek through the shutters, He returned to Its dragonfly seeming, and reluctantly took flight in a spray of metallic brilliance. Maybe next time the person in the brothel would be more specific about what they wanted.

  Returning to Estavia-Sarayi, the young God spun about the armory tower once or twice, then lit upon a stone windowsill on the eastern side of the Cyan Company dormitory. The latticed shutters were thrown open to the clean, spring air and tucking Its wings across Its back, Hisar peered inside.

  Four sleeping figures in two rooms revealed themselves to Its metallic gaze. Only four, Hisar remembered because Brax now had a room of his own on the other side of the dormitory. Two grown men—Kemal and Yashar, Spar and Brax’s abayon—warmed by the crimson-and-silver light of Estavia’s lien, lay sprawled on the low pallet beneath the window in the main room, the blankets in disarray now that their own lovemaking was done. Kemal, the younger of the two, had one arm pillowed under his cheek and the other draped across Yashar’s buttocks while the older man lay half on and half off the pallet, snoring loudly enough to make his heavy, black beard shake. Their sleeping was smooth and unmarred by troubles or uncertainty and, wrapped in the impenetrable armor of Estavia’s embrace, their dreams were peaceful.

  In the next room, Jaq, deep red fur speckled with a touch of gray at the muzzle, lay stretched out protectively on the small pallet beside Spar, paws twitching as he chased rabbits or some other such prey in his dreams. The youth held the dog as closely as a child might hold a comforting toy, his expression as guarded and intense in sleep as it was awake.

  The young God took wing as quietly as It could across the chamber, setting down on the top of the embroidered screen that served as a door between the two rooms and, tipping Its multifaceted head to one side, It stared down at Spar’s sleeping features, illuminated by the fine, faint glow of Hisar’s own immature lien. The months since they’d returned from the battle on the grasslands had thinned the young seer’s cheeks and lengthened the set of his jaw. His nose had grown faster than his face and it had given him a cross-eyed look sometimes when he stared at things close up.

  Not that Hisar had ever told him that, the young God admitted silently. Spar had become very sensitive about his looks in the last few weeks. He had a scattering of pimples through the scattering of new beard on his cheeks and it made him scowl to see them reflected in any polished surface.

  Hisar gave a soft snort. It didn’t know why that bothered him; there were plenty of youths who didn’t care about a few pimples. Just last month, two potter-delinkon had taken Spar’s virginity in an empty storage room behind a workshop kiln and they’d had as many pimples as he did. But Spar had always been a little . . .” Hisar struggled for the right word and settled on self-absorbed instead of vain.

  “Typical seer.”

  Brax’s voice whispered through Hisar’s mind, and the young God chuckled to Itself. Just turned twenty-one, beautiful and desirable with his thick black hair and his wide, dark eyes that hinted of strength and vulnerability equally, Brax’d had sex with more people than a bawd of Ystazia. Maybe that was why Spar was feeling so insecure. He had a lot of ground to cover if he was going to catch up to his older kardos.

  Hisar frowned. Spar had seen fifteen years pass. In three months he would be an adult as people counted such things. And if what he and everyone else feared came to pass, they would be in the middle of a war in three months. Spar was not a Warrior of Estavia. Technically, he was not even a seer-delinkos of Estavia; he was the First and only Priest of Hisar. But Hisar had no doubt that if the Battle God went to war, Spar’s small family would follow and so would Spar.

  And so would Hisar. Spar would expect Him to stand beside him, gifting him with such strengths as a Patron God had at Its command. And that was the problem. Hisar had no idea what strengths It had at Its command. It had no temple, no worshipers, no Morning and Evening Invocations. It had two young priests at odds with each other, a delin-name given to It by Incasa, who had His own designs on Hisar’s destiny, two restrictive prophecies, maybe three, and a title crafted by Incasa’s First Oracle. As Hisar had complained to Spar, It didn’t even know what that meant.

  Clearly, It needed to find out before this war stole one or both of Its new priests away.

  And clearly It needed more followers.

  Glancing out the window, Hisar remembered the first time He and Spar had talked about this. Sitting on a low stone wall that separated Calmak-Koy from the northern shore, with Brax, only just recently allowed out of bed, and Kemal and Yashar, on leave from the garrison at Orzin-Hisar, they’d watched Oristo’s First Day festivities hosted by the priests of Calmak-Koy’s small Oristo-Cami.

  Hisar had chosen His golden seeming and a golden tunic that bespoke no single affiliation, but had decided against the red bead. The thought of all those people staring at Him without recourse to the air had frightened the young God more than He’d wanted to admit.

  There’d been a lot of staring, and a lot of whispering, but no one had managed to work up the courage to approach them, and so the day had passed without incident. Hisar wasn’t sure whether He’d been relieved or disappointed. The young God had felt the unsworn in the crowd and had hungered for them all.

  At dusk, they’d watched the sun set over Gol-Beyaz while Jaq had lain at their feet tearing at a piece of dried meat. With the prophetic vision He and Spar shared, they’d watched as the God-wrought colors had turned the sparkling waters from pink to blue and finally to indigo. The faintest silver light shone from the depths and, as the priests of Havo began to sing the first notes of the Evening Invocation, Hisar had glanced over at Spar with a wistful expression.

  “When will I have a temple and a festival of my own?” He asked.

  Popping the last of a piece of Oristo’s Lokum into his mouth, Spar nodded. “Some day,” he answered in a neutral tone, twisting the bit of brown ribbon it had come tied with around one finger.

  “Why not now?”

  “Because you don’t have enough people sworn to you to build a temple or host a festival now.”

  “I don’t have anyone sworn to me at all, except you and Graize.” Hisar replied. His tone was so sad, that Kemal cast him a sympathetic glance.

  “You will, Hisarin-Delin,” he said, using the diminutive with a smile. “It just takes time. The other Gods have had centuries; you’ve only had a few months.”

  “But, how do I get more Sworn if I don’t have a temple for them to come to?”

  “Point. I don’t know.”

  Staring out at the great bulk of Lazim-Hisar that anchored the northernmost tip of the Western Trisect, Spar cocked his head to one side. “I may have a few ideas about that,” he answered thoughtfully.

  Hisar’s expression brightened at once. “What ideas?”

  “They’re still in the planning stage.”

  “But can’t you tell me just a little? Maybe I could help.”

  “You will help when the time comes,” Spar answered primly. “In the meantime, you need to be patient.”

  “I hate being patient.”

  “I know.” Spar turned. “Aban, what’s that land there to the west of Lazim-Hisar?”

  Both Kemal and Yashar squinted past the setting sun to the area Spa
r indicated.

  “Docks and storage areas for the care and maintenance of Estavia’s fleet,” Kemal answered. “And the first line of embarkation and defense for the Western Trisect. The old sea chain couplings are there too.”

  “Is it part of Estavia-Sarayi?”

  “Not really. It’s actually civic lands. So is Lazim-Hisar for that matter,” Kemal added, “garrisoned by the Warriors of Estavia for the protection of the people. Why?”

  “I was just wondering. We never lifted that far south, Brax and me.”

  Wrapped in a blanket beside him, Brax nodded. “It had too many guards,” he agreed.

  Turning his attention to the blazing lights of Oristo-Sarayi clearly visible across the water, Spar’s expression grew nostalgic. “They’ll be hosting huge outdoor feasts at every one of Oristo’s camis tonight,” he said to Hisar, watching as the Hearth God, bedecked in flowers, rose over the city as the abayos-priests began to sing. “With dancing and revelry that’ll go on till nearly midnight. When I was seven, me, Brax, and Cindar ate until we nearly burst, then lifted enough shine from the dockside festival-goers to buy new clothes and boots for all of us for winter. Remember Brax?”

  “I remember. I was warm and full, and Cindar got so drunk he nearly fell into the cami’s main fountain and set his beard on fire.

  “They float these tiny colored-glass lamps in Oristo’s fountains,” Brax explained to Hisar. “They’re supposed to represent hearth fires, but they look like butterflies made of flame.

  “We lifted two purses each while the priests pulled him out,” he added, returning his attention to Spar. “It was a good night.”

  “It was. The bounty of Oristo.” Spar gave a cynical bark of laughter. “I doubt that’s what the priests actually meant, yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  Yashar cast them both a reproving look. “What it’s supposed to mean, Hisaro-Delin, is that the Gods give to Their followers and Their followers give to the Gods,” he said sternly.

  Spar’s expression cleared. “Right. So, what we need to do is figure out what your bounty is, so we know what you have to give to your followers when you get them.”

  “Exactly,” Kemal agreed. “The Gods are just like people. They each have a job to do; to make the harvest plentiful or add clarity and sparkle to a colored-glass lamp. Or heal the sick,” he added as the hospice’s physician-priests began the Evening Invocation to Usara behind them. “Everyone has to work, Gods as well as Their followers.”

  Hisar gave an unimpressed sniff. “Why?” He demanded.

  Kemal chuckled. “The simplest answer is because everyone needs to eat, so everyone has to work to earn money to buy food.”

  “Some people grow their own food,” Hisar pointed out.

  “And they sell their extra food for money to buy a pot to cook their food in. Either way, it’s still work,” Yashar added in a dry tone.

  “Oh.” Hisar pondered this for a moment. “Spar and Brax didn’t earn money when they were young,” He said triumphantly. “They stole it.”

  “And if you think it didn’t take work to steal, you need to watch the lifters who still run on the western docks,” Brax retorted. “You can’t get away from it. Work is work.”

  About to answer, Hisar paused as Kemal raised a hand. He, Yashar, and Brax all stood. There was silence all around them for a single moment, and then the first note of the Battle God’s Invocation carried across the water. It seemed to swirl about them, gathering strength, so that when all three men responded, Hisar could feel the power almost lift them off the ground. The protection symbols painted on their bodies each morning glowed through their tunics, and He stilled the urge to narrow His eyes in jealousy. One day, His followers would wear the symbols of His patronage on their bodies, too. One day.

  The final note faded, and all three men returned to their seats, each one sitting quietly with his own thoughts while first, the priests of Ystazia, and then Incasa began their own song. As the final note of the Evening Invocations faded, Hisar glanced over.

  “I can get away from work,” He pointed out, returning to their conversation with martial gleam in His eyes. “I don’t need money, and I don’t need to eat.”

  “Don’t you?” Casually, Spar coaxed a tiny seed of power from the wind, holding its silvery radiance up between finger and thumb.

  Hisar frowned at him. “I should never have taught you how to do that.” He pouted as both Yashar and Kemal raised a questioning eyebrow at them.

  Spar laughed and passed it over. “What does it matter? You can do it yourself. But you can’t do this.” His eyes went white for a heartbeat as he touched his fingertips to his chest. As the night air brought them the sound of renewed revelry from Oristo-Sarayi, he sang one, low, quiet note of his own invention.

  Hisar shuddered, feeling a responding pressure against His chest where Spar’s First Vows glittered like fire and ice inside Him. It grew as a thin stream of essence, flowing between them and, for a brief moment, Hisar felt as He imagined the Gods of Gol-Beyaz must feel, before the stream slowly faded, leaving an aching hunger in its wake.

  “Is that my Evening Invocation?” He whispered.

  Spar lifted his hand away, the fingers shimmering with a metallic glow that only they could see. He reached over and pressed them to Hisar’s lips, and the young God shuddered once again as this small bit of physical power was transferred as well.

  Spar’s eyes returned to their usual blue. “The beginnings of it,” he answered. “You can feed on the power of the wind or the water or the land, and the power of the spirits that live there, but what gives you real strength is the power of your people, willingly given. To get that you have to work for it. Just like everyone else.”

  As Kemal, Yashar, and Brax touched their own chests almost instinctively, Hisar’s form shimmered with a restless blur. “Why is it that everything you say always sounds like a lesson these days?” He demanded.

  “Because you’re serving an apprenticeship,” Kemal answered for Spar.

  “As what?”

  “As a God-delinkon.”

  “When will it be over?”

  “In one hundred days, on the Fifty-Ninth Day of Ystazia,” Spar answered for him. “When I turn sixteen.”

  “Oh.” Hisar returned His attention to the silvery glow beneath the waves of Gol-Beyaz. “Will I be an adult then, too?”

  “Probably.”

  “And we’ll know what my bounty is?” Hisar continued, the wistful expression on His face once again, “and how I can use it?”

  Spar nodded.

  “And I’ll have a temple with a fountain, and followers, and a full Invocation, and a festival of my own?”

  “You will.”

  “Soon?”

  “Soon enough.”

  “Good.” Hisar gave a pleased smile. “Then let’s start right now. Who can I have?”

  In Spar’s bedchamber, a sudden, sharp slap against Its mind knocked the young God from Its perch in a startled spray of gold-and-silver light. It took wing out the window at once and, as the dragonfly seeming disappeared over the rooftops of Anavatan, Estavia rose until She towered silently over Her temple.

  Her crimson gaze tracked Hisar’s progress with a dark expression. She suffered the young God’s presence in Her territory because It was still a delos and because of Its connection to Her Champion’s kardos, but there were limits, and planning to increase Its power base in Her temple was one of them. It was time the delos had a temple of Its own somewhere other than in Her Cyan Company dormitory.

  She frowned in irritation. Estavia was the God of clean and simple decisions made on the battlefield. The complicated business of raising delon was the responsibility of their abayon, not Hers. And since Spar was one of Hisar’s abayon, She would have Spar’s own abayon take care of it for Her.

  Formed the thought into a directive, She smacked it down into Kemal’s sleeping mind with a crack of power.

  “FIND A TEMPLE FOR HISAR AND GET IT OUT OF M
INE!”

  Kemal fell out of bed with a shout of surprise; bleary-eyed confusion shot back along the lien and Estavia resisted the urge to slap him as well. Catching up Marshal Brayazi’s mind, She knocked their thoughts together, repeated Her order, sent the image of Hisar’s growing need for followers along both their liens, then broke contact with an impatient snap, ignoring the marshal’s own spike of confusion. Estavia had figured out what had to be done, now it was up to Her kaptins to figure out how to do it; that’s what they had their own intelligence for. With Her annoyance cracking in their ears like thunder, the God of Battles returned to Gol-Beyaz with a great gout of irritated spray.

  In his own room, Spar opened his eyes, staring up at the low ceiling with a satisfied expression as he listened to Yashar’s sleep-befuddled inquiry and Kemal’s equally befuddled answer. Hisar’s hurt surprise at Estavia’s response echoed along his own lien, and he reached out to soothe Its ruffled feathers with an absent thread of power until It calmed. The plan he’d devised on the wall at Oristo-Cami was well underway. As the bounty of Oristo had served his small family of lifters years ago, so would the bounty of Estavia serve him and his young God now. It would build them a temple, making a place for Hisar’s followers to gather. That would keep them both safe and strong. That would keep them all safe and strong.

  With a satisfied smile, he pulled Jaq a bit closer and went back to sleep.

  Rising above Gol-Beyaz, Incasa breathed upon His dice before throwing them into the air, watching as His vision of water echoing in a cavernous darkness became a line of sweeping arches made of stone covered in vines. Water cascaded along its length, stretching out over Anavatan and, as the dice returned to His palm, the God of Prophecy caught sight of a tiny movement in the distance. Two of His most sensitive prophetcats, Graize and Hisar, were already twitching impatiently by His hole in the sand. The vision merged and shifted until it took a double form that both the young God and the unstable young seer would recognize and, with a nod of approval, Incasa withdrew, satisfied that the future was unfolding just as He’d commanded it to.