The Shining City (v5)

by Fiona Patton

  Hovering above the painted outlines of Anavatan, she turned her beak and plucked two feathers from her breast and let them fall. They became a white-clad king and a prince with eyes as fathomless as the sea. They spiraled downward, unhindered by wind or rain, and as Panos watched them go, the melancholy expression returned to her features. There were many fluid possibilities in war, but the blind ambition of kings and princes might as well be etched in stone. The time was coming when she was going to have to decide which feather to fall beside, the king or the prince, but she feared the future was soon going to make that decision for her whatever she might have chosen. With a sigh, she returned her attention to the prophetic map below her.

  In Skirosian prophecy, towers symbolized either stability or rigidity, but in this case, both Pyrros and Illan would meet purely physical obstacles; the outcome determined by purely physical combat. There was little she could do to change their fate. Only Graize would face a symbolic tower and, rigid where he might be stable, her shortsighted little tortoise was not going to want her help, but he was going to need it.

  She shook her head at the image of a shortsighted seer before bringing her thoughts back to the present.

  Most of the crow-seers of Anavatan had their mist-covered eyes trained on the west, believing that their physical towers could keep watch to the north and south. All but one: the young seer Hisar had brought to spy upon her lovemaking so long ago. He was also rigid where he should be stable and needed help but did not want it. And like Graize, his fate was not so firmly fixed by physical obstacles that it could not be influenced.

  Weary of the ambitions of kings and princes, she decided that it would be. As the twin feathers of her prophecy reached the outstretched fingers of Spar’s abilities, she formed them into a question, then wheeled about and headed back to the small camp on the banks of the Halic-Salmanak with a keening cry.

  In the seer’s shrine at Estavia-Sarayi, Spar’s eyes snapped open. All around him, he could feel Sable Company beginning their slow journey up from prophecy as the sun began its own climb toward the horizon. They moved calmly and sedately like a school of fish rising in the water with no hint of any unexpected vision to mar their progress.

  He frowned.

  Driven by the threat of High Spring storms that might conceal the movement of their enemies, Estavia’s seers had spent the last three days in almost constant visioning, patrolling the streams, ever watchful for the faintest sign that would signal an attack. However, now that it had come, they seemed oblivious.

  He knew Sable Company was as well trained and disciplined as the temple ghazon. If anything, they were too disciplined, only reacting quickly on the battlefield when Estavia Herself was giving the orders. At all other times, rather than a school of fish, they acted more like a line of turtles heading for the water, studying and analyzing every symbol’s every meaning, until he wanted to scream at them in frustration.

  A white-clad king and a prince with eyes as fathomless as the sea.

  Had none of the others seen it?

  Were none of the others meant to see it?

  Closing his eyes, he reached out, tracing the line of possibility the image had created as it fell. It rose on rungs of confused sensation and he followed, feeling honey, tasting sand, and breathing in the soft odor of lips against his cheek, until finally he heard a woman’s face, felt her black eyes filled with prophecy, and saw her voice.

  “Spar.”

  The word scattered against his vision like a handful of diamonds, bright and sharp. He stared at them, mesmerized until a tiny inconsistency broke the surface of his concentration: words did not scatter and spoken words did not look like physical things. Not in his prophecy.

  Under his control, the vision steadied to become a simple question:

  “Who will you bring to stand against the white king and the fathomless prince, Spar?”

  “Spar?”

  The word tickled against his physical senses, and he opened his eyes again to see Kaptin Liel bending over him. The shrine was empty.

  “What time is it?” he croaked.

  “Nearly dawn.”

  “The others?”

  “Have gone to prepare for Morning Invocation. Will you be joining us?”

  Spar shook his head. “I can feel you all from here,” he said, matching the kaptin’s neutral tone.

  “Fair enough. Eat and get some rest if you can, but don’t be surprised if your mind refuses to allow it. You went deep, and your prophecy will have a lot to sort through. Sable Company will be reconvening in one hour to analyze what we’ve seen. You’re welcome to join us as always, but if you want a private consultation, come find me when you’re ready to talk about your visions.”

  “You’ll be here?”

  The kaptin’s bi-gender features showed a moment of weariness. “Until the attack comes, I might as well have a cot and a chamber pot brought over.”

  Spar smiled faintly to acknowledge the humor, then glanced out one narrow window for a moment before turning back. “What did you see?” he asked, an uncharacteristically tentative note in his voice.

  “Rain and fog,” the seer-kaptin answered in a disgusted voice. “Growing ever thicker, concealing movement on all fronts, just as before.”

  “Nothing specific, then?”

  The seer-kaptin raised a questioning eyebrow. “Not yet, Delin. Why, did you?”

  “I’m not sure. But you’re right; I need to sort it out first. There might be more to it and there might not. Somehow it feels . . . more personal.”

  “That’s a common feeling among young seers.” Kaptin Liel raised one hand before Spar could voice an indignant protest. “As I said, come and see me when you’re ready.” Rising fluidly, the kaptin withdrew, leaving Spar to his own thoughts.

  In the shadowy darkness of the now-empty shrine, he puzzled over his vision.

  A king and a prince, at least that imagery was simple enough to understand. The king was Pyrros of Skiros and the prince was Illan of Volinsk: the attacks from the south and the north had begun. But . . . behind the king and the prince was the presence of Panos of Amatus, a powerful oracle that felt like honey and tasted of sand. Everything Panos did was subtle, and he had no idea what she was trying to make him do or how to avoid it. That she seemed to have spoken to Brax as well made this vision even more suspect.

  “Who will you bring . . . ?”

  His brows drew down into a deep vee. Why did he need to bring anyone? Wasn’t it up to Marshal Brayazi and Kaptin Liel to stand against the leaders of their enemies?

  But the question persisted, niggling at his mind until he found the simplest of answers. Who would he bring to stand against Panos’ mighty family?

  He would bring his own.

  Once decided, he allowed himself to drift into a light doze as the first note of the Morning Invocations sounded in the distance. He felt the Gods emerge from Gol-Beyaz, one by one, Their presence causing a deep, ringing pressure in his chest to thrum along his lien with Hisar; he heard Estavia’s people call out to Her, felt Her response catch in his throat, then fade into stillness. Only then did he give in to the pressure and sing one quiet note into the darkness.

  Hisar responded at once, with all the excited exuberance of a half-grown puppy. The young God could not manifest in Estavia’s shrine, and Spar felt a sudden stab of both annoyance and impatience shooting down the lien. Its thoughts were a whirl of imagery, and as It struggled to bring Itself under control, Spar reached out to calm It as he might have done to Jaq.

  The night’s events crashed over him like a hurricane.

  He came back to himself, slumped against the shrine’s outside wall with rain pouring down his face and Hisar nowhere to be seen. Gulping in the cool dawn air, he waited until his head stopped pounding, then cautiously opened one eye. The temple grounds were shrouded in shadow with a bank of heavy storm clouds above, and a thin layer of fog stretching out across the courtyard. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

  �
�That hurt,” he complained to the empty air, pushing a lock of sopping wet hair off his face. “Next time get your mind to use its voice instead of its fists, yeah?”

  There was no response and, straightening with a grimace, he wiped his hands on his tunic before splashing his way across the main courtyard with a disgusted expression.

  The bustling warmth of the commissary wrapped around him like a blanket and, suddenly voraciously hungry, he kicked off his wet sandals just inside the door, and headed for the central table, leaving a line of wet footprints in his wake. He filled a large bowl with rice boiled in mullet fat, smoked fish, stuffed mussels, and olives then, with the bowl tucked under one arm, a slice of melon in one hand, and a huge piece of goat’s cheese and a strip of tripe balanced precariously on a glass of cold tea in the other, he made for the Cyan Company dining hall.

  A loud, welcoming bark told him that his family had already arrived and, a moment later, he joined Kemal and Yashar at their usual table. He tossed the tripe to the dog at once, ignoring his older abayon’s stern expression.

  “He’s already had his breakfast.”

  As Jaq dropped onto Spar’s feet, growling and chewing in equal measure, the youth just shrugged. “It’s a bribe for being away from him all night.”

  “In that case you should bribe us, too,” Kemal replied. “It took him forever to settle and his toenails are very sharp.”

  Wordlessly, Spar held out the melon slice.

  Kemal just snorted. “Keep it. It looks like you need it.” He cocked his head to one side as Spar immediately stripped the flesh from the rind with his teeth and swallowed it whole. “You look pale,” he noted. “You need more sleep.”

  “Hungry, not sleepy,” Spar answered, shoveling rice into his mouth as soon as he’d swallowed the melon.

  “Ah, yes, fifteen,” Yashar observed with a nostalgic expression. “I remember it well. There wasn’t a table safe from my appetite.”

  “There still isn’t,” Kemal retorted.

  “I’m sure I’ve slowed down some.” Yashar pushed his empty plate to one side before leaning his elbows on the table. “When you’ve finished polishing the pattern off your bowl, Delin, we have some news.”

  Taking a great bite of cheese, Spar washed it down with half his tea before glancing from one man to the other. “News?”

  “Our troop’s being deployed to Iskele-Hisar.”

  “When?”

  “The day after tomorrow.”

  Lifting a piece of smoked meat with two fingers, Spar studied it with a scowl before stuffing it into his mouth. “And you want me to come with you,” he said in a muffled voice.

  “Yes,” Kemal replied bluntly. “Ordinarily you’d be safer here, but with the threat of attack by the Volinski Fleet . . .”

  “And your determination to station yourself outside the Western Trisect walls . . .” Yashar added.

  “We think you’d be safer with us.”

  “Where we could keep an eye on you.”

  Spar stopped eating long enough to give both men a somber look. “Brax needs me,” he said simply, catching up a handful of stuffed mussels. “And I’ll have Jaq. He’ll keep me safe.”

  “One dog against an army of Volinski soldiers?” Kemal asked.

  “No. One dog against a small raiding force.” He took a bite of cheese, then flipped the rest at Jaq, watching as the dog caught and swallowed it in one motion. “But I do need your help,” he added before stuffing the entire handful of mussels into his mouth. Washing them down with the last of his tea, he outlined all that had happened since they’d stood together before the command council.

  “Can you get reassigned, Aban?” he asked with a serious expression. “Here, like you were the night Brax called to Estavia on Liman Caddesi. I think Brax and I are going to need you here to counter the presence of Skiros and Volinsk in prophecy.”

  Kemal and Yashar exchanged a glance. “I’m sure we can be, Delin,” Kemal assured him. “But you do know that on that night we were directed to the seer’s shrine by Estavia Herself, and we . . .”

  “Destroyed it,” Yashar finished for him. “Or rather, Estavia destroyed it in Her zeal to respond to Kem’s Invocation. I don’t know that Sable Company will welcome our presence with open arms again.”

  “No, not in the seer’s shrine,” Spar answered, feeling the certainty of his words as he said them. “In the central shrine, in Kaptin Haldin’s Shrine.”

  “Ah.” The older man sat back. “That seems more appropriate.”

  “What about the rest of Cyan Company? They were with us that night,” Kemal pointed out. “Will you be needing them as well?”

  “No. We just need you, Aban.”

  Both men smiled warmly at him in response. “When?” Kemal asked.

  “I’m not sure.” Spar stared into his empty glass as if it could reveal the answer to him. “Soon.”

  “Seer soon?” Yashar asked with a twinkle in his eye. “Absolutely and maybe? Hurry up and wait?”

  “Be warned and be ready,” Kemal admonished him in a gentle voice.

  “Ah, that kind of soon.”

  Spar snorted. “Yes, Aba, that kind of soon.”

  “Well, then, there’s time for a second helping of breakfast, isn’t there? Extra bread and olives for you, Delin, and Kem . . . ?” Yashar asked, catching up their plates.

  “Just coffee, Yash. On second thought, let me.” Kemal held his hand out with a stern expression. “You’ll take too much and spend the day breaking wind.”

  Yashar handed the plates over with a laugh. As his arkados headed for the central table, he glanced over at Spar, but when his delos continued to stare into his glass, he leaned back, scratching Jaq gently with one foot. “Asper for your thoughts,” he offered, setting a small copper coin on the table with a smile.

  Spar glanced at it for a moment, then slowly put it into his pouch. “There’s more that I need your help with,” he said reluctantly.

  “Ask away, it’s what we’re here for.”

  “Actually, it’s something Hisar needs your help with.”

  “Hisar?”

  “Yeah. But I think He needs to ask you Himself; it’s kinda specific. Can you come up to the armory tower? It’s easier for Him to manifest there.”

  “Can it wait until after breakfast?”

  Spar glanced up as Kemal returned with a heaping plateful of food, setting it down before him with a flourish.

  “Yeah.”

  He and Jaq took a boat across the mouth of the Halic an hour later, meeting up with Brax at Gerek-Hisar just as his kardos came through the main gate with the rest of his troop. The rain was falling more heavily now and, as they splashed their way toward the tower dormitories, Spar fell into step beside him, ignoring his surprised expression.

  “Tired?” he asked.

  Dark hair plastered to his skull, Brax just shrugged. “Some,” he allowed. “It was a long night. Why?”

  “I need you to go out again. With me.”

  “Right away?”

  “No, not right, right away.”

  “Good, ’cause I need a warm bath and a couple hours’ sleep. I sang the Morning Invocation on the aqueduct and nearly fell in.”

  “Weren’t you tied off?”

  “I forgot. Like I said, it was a long night.” One foot poised above the steps to the tower bathhouse, Brax paused. “Do I want to know where we’re going?” he asked, blinking the rain from his eyes with a weary gesture.

  “The Bibliotheca.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  Brax sighed. “It’s always complicated.”

  “I’ll explain on the way.”

  The temple of Ystazia-Sarayi contained the largest collection of books, scrolls, and manuscripts in the known world, housed in one of the world’s most beautiful libraries, the Bibliotheca. Brax and Spar had come here only once, three years ago, accompanied by Ihsan. Awed into uncomfortable silence by the wealth of stained glass, polished
marble, and silk tapestries all around him, Brax had been relieved when they’d left. Now he handed his wet cloak to an awestruck temple delinkos, tugging irritably at the sleeve of his formal tunic as they stepped into the huge, mosaic antechamber.

  “And we’re here because . . . why?” he asked in a strained whisper.

  “Because Ihsan’s here.”

  “And this couldn’t wait until he came to the temple?”

  “No. I told you on the way over here, we’ve set the trap, but there’s more to it than that. I saw what Hisar’s going to fight, what He’s been scratching around the entrance to night after night. And I need to know more about it.” Spar glanced down at Jaq. “Stay.” The dog gave him a reproachful look in response, then curled up in a corner of the anteroom as Spar headed for the main staircase.

  Brax followed, his own countenance as reproachful as the dog’s.

  They found their old teacher deep in the bowels of the research section, scrolls held open by velvet-covered paperweights and sheets of vellum piled all around him.

  Glancing up, he smiled broadly as they approached. “Come to help me write my treatise on First Day rituals?” he asked Spar with a wink at Brax.

  Spar just shook his head. “Not today, Sayin. We need to ask you about the aqueduct and the cistern.”

  “Ah.” Ihsan set his manuscript to one side. “I had heard there was some veiled prophecy or another floating about. What do you need to know?”

  “How to get in.”

  “The belief that the main cistern services the entire city is actually a myth.”

  Sitting on a pile of cushions in one of the smaller reading rooms, Ihsan passed them a large, vellum map. “It’s vast, yes, but, as you can see, the Temple Precinct has its own system of wells and cisterns, as does the Citadel.”