The Shining City (v5)

by Fiona Patton

“How?”

  Hisar shook Himself. “I can’t tell you exactly. I can’t even think it through completely yet or Graize will figure it out. But it will work. I know it will. You just have to trust me.”

  Spar chewed at his cheek for a moment, then nodded. “All right, then. Let’s get to work. You go to Incasa-Sarayi and get First Oracle Bessic on board. I’ll go to Chamberlain Tanay and see if she can find me a boat-master willing to brave the crossing, and then I have to talk to Kaptin Liel.”

  Snapping into Its dragonfly-seeming immediately, Hisar flung Itself from the dark place with another spray of metallic light. Spar watched It go, then turned to regard the gull with a jaundiced eye. “Don’t you have someplace else to be, too?” he demanded. “Go on. Piss off.”

  The bird stared back at him for a deliberately long time, before it also took flight in a spray of light. Once he was alone, Spar pulled Hisar’s wooden dice from the pouch at his side. Here, in the dark place, they gave off an opalescent glow that reminded him of Incasa’s own tools of prophecy, and he closed his fist over them, refusing to even glance at the numbers they revealed. Shoving them back into his pouch, he, too, left the dark place, his expression thoughtful. Then, with Jaq at his side, he headed swiftly into the temple proper as the rain began to drive against the battlements with increased fury, Hisar’s plan burning brightly in his mind.

  A short distance away, in the central arzhane chamber at Incasa-Sarayi, First Oracle Bessic felt a buzz of wings across his mind as Hisar whirred over the temple rooftops. The young God left a flaming trail of multiple possibilities behind It, fracturing the more established streams in Its wake, and Bessic took the opportunity to shift his weight a little as they settled. He’d been in vision for most of the day, and his legs felt like blocks of wood.

  “Blocks of wood left on a cold, damp floor to grow soggy and covered in moss,” he muttered to himself.

  The delinkos supporting his back stirred. “Sayin?”

  He shook his head, but the damage was done. All around him, he could feel the rest of Incasa’s seers drawn up—almost too eagerly—from vision by the sound of his voice and realized that he had spoken aloud on purpose. With a sigh, he opened his eyes, allowing each physical sensation to return to his consciousness, one by one.

  The room swam into focus: light-and-sound-muffling stone covered in dark wood paneling, with four wall lamps providing just enough dim light to see by, and four iron incense burners filling the air with the heavy, prophetic odors of acacia, marigold, and wormwood. The polished walnut floor was covered in a heavy woolen carpet and dozens of soft cushions to keep out the damp, but even so, the faint taste of wet stone, cold earth, and salt coated his lips. Two dozen expectant pairs of mist-covered eyes met his. Someone at the back of the room coughed almost apologetically. The buzz of Hisar’s wings vibrated through his mind again, beating at his focus the way a bird’s wings might beat against a window.

  “Yes, I can feel you,” he told It sternly. “Just a moment.”

  “We’ll pause for a time,” he said out loud, keeping the weariness he felt from entering his voice. “Walk about and take some refreshments while you can.”

  The gathered seer-priests did their best to maintain their dignity as they left the arzhane, but even so they reminded Bessic of a crowd of delon released from lessons. At the First Oracle’s signal, his delinkos helped him to his feet. Feeling eighty-four rather than forty-four, he stifled a grunt as a rush of painful tingling swept up his legs.

  “Tea, Kassim. Then go and eat as well.”

  “Will you be joining us, Sayin, or shall I bring you something back?” his delinkos asked, pouring him a small porcelain cup of rize chai laced with raki from the small pot to one side.

  “Bring me a warm mutton kebob and a cold bowl of asure.”

  “Yes, Sayin.”

  Handing him the cup, Kassim followed the others from the room. Once he was alone, Bessic sipped at the lukewarm liquid with one hand while working the stiffness from his neck and back with the other.

  With the looming threat of invasion imminent, Incasa’s seer-priests had maintained a constant Seeking throughout the Spring, searching for even the tiniest signal that their enemies were closing in. In the last week, pressure from Incasa Himself had kept them on high alert, ready to throw their strength behind their God at a moment’s notice. Their enemies were close. Bessic could feel it although Incasa had yet to point them out in vision, but they were so very close.

  The restless beating of Hisar’s metaphysical wings thrummed across his consciousness for the third time, and he resisted the sudden urge to shout shoo at It. He had enough to worry about without a half-grown God-delos flitting about his minarets.

  A throbbing headache began to travel across his left temple and he rubbed at it irritably as he considered the problem of Hisar. He needed to keep the ever-shifting streams of possibility from tangling together, and Hisar did more than tangle them, It tied them into knots. The sooner Its stubborn little delos-priest got It into Gol-Beyaz the better.

  With his mind’s attention now turned toward the young God, an image flowed unbidden into his thoughts: a simple request for help from Spar.

  Bessic’s eyes widened in surprise. Spar had made a single overture to Incasa-Sarayi last year, but since then it had become blatantly obvious that he was not meant for the Prophecy God’s temple; that stream had gone dry. Spar was Hisar’s First Priest, and as subtle and slippery a First Priest as any who’d ever carried the title. He’d be difficult to deal with. However, despite his considerable talents, he was still very, very young. Bessic could work with that.

  He grimaced as the request blossomed in his mind, revealing further details like a flower opening its petals: help with Graize. His grimace deepened. Little save what Freyiz had managed to impart to him on her death was known about Hisar’s abayos. Little save that he was important enough for Incasa Himself to rescue above the wild lands years ago.

  A cool caress, like a sprinkling of snow across his mind, smoothed his headache away as Incasa responded to his thoughts and Bessic opened his mind to Him with a grateful sigh. The God of Prophecy caught him up—much as He’d done when he’d been a small delos—and accepting the request from his mind, laid him gently into a new stream of possibility. Buoyed up by the waves, Bessic watched it grow, studying each aspect and element involved with a thoughtful expression. The young God and Its delos-First Priest had enacted an ambitious, if somewhat untenable plan of attack. They would indeed need help if they were to win through, and there was so little time left. He would have to move swiftly.

  As if to confirm the thought, a fleet of brown-sailed ships suddenly winked into being on the horizon of his prophecy, jerking him out of vision in surprise. Opening his eyes, he found Kassim standing respectfully in the doorway with his kebob and his asure on a small, silver plate in one hand and a pair of stained wooden soldier’s dice in the other.

  “Pardon the interruption, Sayin, but these just arrived from Estavia-Sarayi,” his delinkos said almost apologetically. “There was no message attached.”

  “Of course there wasn’t,” Bessic snorted. Suddenly ravenously hungry, he accepted the food at once. “Send a message to Havo-Sarayi asking First Cultivar Adrian to convene Havo’s priests for a most unseasonal working,” he said, stripping off the first piece of mutton from the kebob with his teeth. “They need to ask the God of Seasonal Storms to calm the Halic.”

  His delinkos blinked. “Calm the Halic, Sayin?”

  Bessic held one hand out for the dice. “Not its entire length, just a five-foot-wide trough at its mouth stretching from Estavia-Sarayi to the Northern Trisect should be fine.”

  Kassim handed the dice over. “Yes, Sayin.”

  “And summon the others. I’ve seen the enemy approaching from the north.”

  “At once, Sayin!”

  As his delinkos withdrew at a run, Bessic drained the bowl of asure in a single swallow. With Incasa’s Luck, that would keep the
streams untangled. Whether it kept Hisar and Its very inexperienced two priests out of harm’s reach, however, remained to be seen, but the possibility had been created; now it was up to them. Jiggling the dice in his palm, he watched the numbers merge and shift, then closed his fist over them much as he sensed Spar had done earlier. “With Incasa’s Luck,” he repeated.

  Reaching out, he laid one mental hand across Hisar’s intent, calming the young God as best he could.

  “Don’t be afraid, Delin,” he said, speaking through Incasa’s lien and knowing that the God of Prophecy would relay his words to Hisar. “We’re coming as quickly as we can.”

  12

  Gerek-Hisar

  PERCHED ON INCASA-SARAYI’S HIGHEST minaret, Hisar accepted Bessic’s assurances with relief. Then, stretching Its translucent wings as far as they could reach, It leaped into the air and, swooping past Incasa-Sarayi’s main gate, headed across the city. Reaching out with suddenly clawed feet, It grasped the air around the flagpole atop Gerek-Hisar and spun around to face the shrouded strait.

  Far to the north, It could feel Illan’s approaching fleet as a great flock of brown birds beating against Its immature abilities, and shook off the sudden sense of foreboding that followed in its wake. The defense of Anavatan was not Its concern right now. That was for the older Gods and their established temples to worry about. Its concern was to save Graize and probably Brax, too.

  And it could be done, It thought with a sudden burst of excitement. It could bring Brax and Graize together and keep them apart at the same time. It had a plan.

  But first It had to find Brax.

  Twisting Its head to what would have been an impossible angle had It been a fully physical being, the young God bared Its teeth at the sky. The rain and the fog were too thick to see through, but there were other ways of finding someone other than by looking. Reaching out along the lien It shared with Spar, It traveled down the bond of trust and memories the youth shared with no one except his older kardos and found Its answer. Brax was in the courtyard below. Resisting the urge to laugh out loud, the young God tucked Its wings tightly against Its body and dropped.

  As It plummeted downward, the flock of brown birds took wing across Its mind, and once again It shook off the accompanying sense of foreboding, ordering them away with an imperious shake of Its head. Obedient to Its command, the birds wheeled about and headed across the water, becoming a fleet of ships, before disappearing up the strait.

  Far to the north, the Volinski fleet lay quietly off the headlands of the Bogazi-Isik, shielded from sight by the fog and guided by the royal weather sorcerers. Dressed in leather boots, breeches, and a heavy woolen kaftan to ward off the rain, Prince Illan stood on the flagship sterncastle, staring into the distance.

  They’d made an auspicious crossing, losing only two ships, when a sudden squall had come upon them in the night. Now they anchored in a shallow bay on the eastern shore, putting the heavier galleys to the seaward side to protect the lighter. To either side, blue-gray cliffs disappeared into the fog like vast, natural battlements, hiding any possible sentry post as effectively as it hid the fleet.

  A cold breeze whistled past his face and behind him, Vyns stirred restlessly.

  “I always heard the lands in the south were warm,” the sergeant-at-arms noted in a sour voice.

  “Warmer,” Illan corrected absently before turning to the senior water sorcerer standing a respectful distance from the prince and his man. “What does the strait speak of, Nadiev?” he asked.

  Removing her hood, the old woman bent to sight along the length of the water. “It’s difficult to interpret, Highness,” she answered, pushing a lock of fine, gray hair back from her face. “It speaks in a foreign, southern tongue, but I can sense both crosscurrents and undercurrents of great strength in the distance, each one speaking its own language.”

  “That would be the fabled God-waters of Gol-Beyaz,” he noted.

  “Yes, Highness.” She straightened. “Within its own depths, the strait speaks of its resident fish remaining deep with no encroachment by foreigners and a few squabbles over shelter. This suggests lasting bad weather with little or no respite in the near future. It does not speak of the break of our oars upon the water, nor of any enemy oars approaching us. I would hazard that we are still undiscovered from the waterside.”

  And to the landward?”

  She stared up at the mist-covered cliffs towering above them. “We approached a heavily wooden landscape in a driving rain with a deeply enveloping fog. It would stand to reason that we remain hidden from any posted sentries, but their Majesties’ land sorcerers could address that more accurately than I, Highness. We should ask them when they return.”

  As one, they glanced over to where a number of small boats were making for the thin strip of pebbled beach.

  “There’s a strong wind coming in from the north,” she continued. “At home this would herald a freezing rain, maybe even hail, but here . . . more rain at the very least, I would think. A hard-driving and cold rain from the smell of it. It may sweep away the fog.”

  Her voice held a touch of anxiety that hinted at more than just concern about the weather, and Illan nodded. No one in the fleet would speak of the last time a Volinski duc had ordered an invasion of Anavatan, but it would be foremost in their minds. There had been no fog when Duc Leold had sent his people against the Gods of Gol-Beyaz and lost a fleet, the throne, and his life. No one wanted to see the ghosts of ancient shipwrecks in their visions.

  “Lovely,” Vyns snorted.

  “Yes,” Nadiev continued, retreating back into the depths of her hood as the rain began to fall with greater force. “It would be better if our land sorcerers didn’t linger. The rain will make their return difficult.”

  Illan inclined his head in agreement. “Let’s hope their prophecy warns them of that in time, then,” he said in a dry voice.

  Nadiev glanced over at him, gauging his mood. “What does your own prophecy tell you, Highness?”

  Illan returned his gaze to the cliffs. “That we’re in a desolate place where even a gull cannot see far, but that it won’t last.” His brows drew down in a thoughtful frown as he studied the clouds above. “There was a pinprick of light to the southwest earlier,” he noted. “And a corresponding spark of clarity in my vision. It may have been enough for the Anavatanon seers to gain some small sense of our proximity.”

  “They know we’re coming, Highness?”

  Anxiety colored the water sorcerer’s tone again, and Illan raised an eyebrow at her. “They’ve known we’re coming for some months, Nadiev,” he chided. “Just not exactly when. Aided by their Gods, they’ll know that soon enough. Maintaining surprise was never our intention.” He returned his attention to the clouds. “However, we should not linger too long seeking signs of prophecy in the rocks and trees so far from our real objective,” he added.

  “When they finally do discover when, we’ll have the advantage of many heavier and stronger galleys,” Vyns offered with a hint of pride in his voice. “Dromons with mounted catapults and archers of consummate skill. All they have are lake penteconters,” he sneered.

  “True. And they will be beset by our allies on every shore.” Illan raised his face to the wind, seeking for the fine thread of memory that led him to Panos. “Some more hidden than others,” he added as he found it. Their thoughts caressed for a brief moment, warming his spirit, before the fog swept them apart once more.

  He turned. “We should not linger,” he repeated. “Vyns.”

  “My lord?”

  “Inform Prince Pieter that I advise all possible speed. If he can order the fleet to move in this weather, he should do so. The fog is our ally, but it’s a fickle friend, and wilts before the onslaught of a cold wind. He has perhaps . . .” Illan stared up at the sky, trying to gauge the time through the clouds. “. . . three hours until nightfall. Do you concur, Nadiev?”

  “I do, Highness.”

  “Then tell him that he would do
well to make use of it.”

  Vyns bowed. “Yes, my lord.”

  The sound of boats scraping against rocks told them that the land sorcerers had finally reached the shore, and Illan made for his cabin with an impatient snort. Reading omens on the cliffs and beaches of the Bogazi would do them little good. They needed to reach Anavatan before the fog lifted.

  A silken thread of ancient prophecy whispered past him, and he raised one hand to sweep it away before it tainted his own vision. He had no time for the ghosts of long-past shipwrecks or of the battles fought seven centuries ago. He had time only for the present and for the future he’d devised. He would make it happen no matter what.

  The thread of prophecy spun away on the wind, traveling south until it finally came to rest in Panos’ open palm. She regarded it for a moment, her black eyes filled with unshed tears, then sent it off in a new direction with a single breath. A distant breeze caught it, and it vanished into the past once again.

  Fog.

  From within the confines of his helmet, he frowned. Fog was the bane of sentries and not just because it limited sight. It also distorted sound, made it louder, and threw it around so that one never knew just where it was coming from.

  Standing on the top of Estavia-Sarayi’s new armory tower as Kaptin Haldin once again, he closed his eyes, straining to make sense of the mishmash of noise that filtered up to him. The crash of waves coming from inland, birdsong coming from below, muffled ships’ bells ringing beside him, people talking as if they stood directly in front of him, and the single note of Havo’s priests beginning the Evening Invocations seemingly everywhere at once. Sounds that were both frustrating and confusing, but not precisely heralds of approaching danger.

  He opened his eyes.

  Anavatan stretched out below him, half hidden by the fog, but shining like a silver beacon in his mind; the City of the Gods; completed now down to the last municipal dovecote; its God-Wall strong and its markets filled to bursting. The chain that protected the western docks was ready to be stretched across the mouth of the Halic-Salmanak, and Estavia’s fleet was ready to embark at the first sign of danger. And there was no sign of danger. Not yet. None save the fog . . .