by Fiona Patton
Riding behind Kursk, gathering up the flock of lights that had followed him from the wild lands; weaving and binding each tiny spark of consciousness together under the pressure of their guidance until he’d fashioned them into a crude, human-seeming.
The bargain he’d struck with that seeming, pointing to the wavering image of a child of unformed potential hovering behind a dark-haired man surrounded by a host of silver swords, and speaking his first words to It: “That one, give me that one.” And feeling Its ready and eager compliance.
Standing before Danjel and a host of Yuruk youth, answering the demand: “What can you do?” with “I can make a God,” while above him the human-seeming made of lights grew brighter and brighter with his promise of strength and power.
Standing in the saddle on the blood-soaked ground before Serin-Koy, summoning a Godling, formed and ready to go into battle for the first time. Watching It streak from the clouds with all the speed and power of a blazing comet, feeling It flowing around him and through him, and watching It envelop his enemy in a mass of teeth and claws.
And orchestrating the final, violent stage of Its birthing on the battlements of Estavia-Sarayi.
Throughout, his and Hisar’s lighter moments together wove through each memory like golden threads in a tapestry.
Climbing the rocks before Cvet Tower with the Godling draped about his neck, and running his fingers along Its shimmering flank to feel It rumble back at him in sleepy contentment.
Watching It cavort across a rainbow and spin lazily about a tent pole in the Gurney Dag Mountains, and flying with their minds as one, above the sparkling indigo length of the Terv River at sunset.
The darker moments wove throughout these memories as well.
Crouching in the rain and mud at Chalash with the Godling shrieking and shuddering in his arms and rocking It back and forth, keeping up a constant flow of comforting words and snatches of half-remembered lullabies until It calmed.
Catching It just before Its immature body disintegrated at the entrance to Dar-Sayer’s cavern and cradling It in his arms again, his new protective cloak wrapped about It like a balm.
Seeing It take the seeming of his oldest enemy, staring up at him in mute entreaty with Brax’s wide, dark eyes dull with the memory of pain.
Having that enemy helpless before him, raising his knife, and having the Godling leap between them, screaming out the possession It had carved without him.
“Mine! Mine, Mine, MINE, MINE, MINE!”
On the mountain ridge, the echo of Its words rose to a shrieking crescendo, flooding his mind and body with another memory, the memory of the Godling’s pain the day that Spar’s sudden oaths had forced It to manifest in the physical world before It was truly ready. The Godling had slammed into Graize with a force that had knocked them both to the ground, and as the memory played out once more, Hisar’s voice thundered across the mountains.
“IT HURTS! MAKE IT STOP! YOU PROMISED YOU’D NEVER BE GONE FROM ME AGAIN! MAKE IT STOP!”
And the words he’d screamed as the image of Spar’s oaths had swept over him ricocheted across the mountainsides.
“No! He can’t have you! He won’t have you! You’re mine! Only Mine! My God!”
The sky above him caught fire as his earlier vision swept over him again. The air grew heavy and portentous as the dawn sun prepared to soar over the horizon. Far away water sparkled in a cavernous darkness, and in that darkness Hisar screamed in pain and fear. The lien they’d forged on the grasslands burned with a silver fire that tore through Graize’s body like lightning, and through it all Hisar’s voice hammered against his mind like a battering ram.
“IT HURTS! MAKE IT STOP! MAKE IT STOP! HELP ME! HELP ME! HELP ME!”
“YOU PROMISED YOU’D NEVER BE GONE FROM ME AGAIN!”
In the alcove, Graize’s body spasmed from the force of Hisar’s cry, while on the mountain path, he was thrown to the ground. He scrabbled about, frantically searching for anything that might regain his control, and suddenly his physical hands found Brax’s body lying slumped against the cistern wall.
His mind slid easily down the all-but-forgotten link they’d forged sixteen years before. As the innate strength of the other man—the strength that had reached out to Graize all his life in the seeming of the dark-haired boy—flowed between them, the deepest part of Graize’s mind, empty for so long, suddenly filled and calmed. The chaos of his inner thoughts stilled, fashioning a path of stability and sanity that began in a mist-enshrouded doorway and snaked along a snow-clad mountain ridge and off into the future. The path winked in and out of focus as anger and desire in equal measure battled for Graize’s decision. Then, with a scream of his own to match Hisar’s, he tore Brax from the past and, throwing his protective cloak over them, hurled both their minds off the mountain ridge and into the frigid darkness of Anavatan’s cistern.
They hit the water with an explosion of power that sent another gout of spray and spirits shooting from the city’s fountains to flood across the streets in a purely physical reaction.
Graize’s mind was the first to recover. With his eyes as wild as the mass of creatures around him, he shot to the surface, taking in the tableaus before him in a single instant.
To one side, the mist-covered streets of Liman Caddesi undulated in the water, its hold over their memories giving it added solidity in this place of power. Beneath the wharf, Spar struggled to keep his footing, while hundreds of spirits, in the guise of their stronger wild land cousins, swarmed about him like a mass of angry bees.
For a single heartbeat, Graize considered leaving him to his fate, but with Brax’s strength still coursing down their mended lien, he saw the future stream created by such a decision stretched out before him with almost painful clarity.
And he saw who it would benefit most, a man in a red tower moving wooden figurines on a painted board of mahogany and mist.
Illan of Volinsk.
The memory of his time with the northern sorcerer played out before him just as swiftly. Illan had instructed him in the ways of his people’s prophecy, but always with an agenda. Graize had known that, but with an agenda of his own driving him, he’d accepted it; he controlled the game and the game’s outcome had always been to defeat Brax and Spar.
But he’d also known that had never been the outcome of Illan’s game. As the atlas table wavered in the waters before him, he watched the ghostly figurines of armies, navies, and Gods move to the pattern set out by the prince’s ambitions alone. And he saw the pattern set out by the four figures that represented himself and the others. Illan’s outcome had always been the defeat of Anavatan, but hidden within that outcome was the single move that would see it done: the defeat of Hisar by using Graize as a pawn, his single-minded drive to hurt Brax at all cost blinding him to every other possibility.
In the farthest corner of his mind, he heard Panos’ voice.
“It’s said among the Skirosian oracles that prophecy is like a broken mirror, showing everything there is to see except oneself.
“The element which hangs in the balance is not shrouded at all, beautiful one. It’s you. How easily swept aside do you think it is now?”
“Not swept aside at all, Panos,” he acknowledged. “But taken up and wielded like a weapon. But you’re right. The mirror needs to be mended first. And then looked into with every ounce of prophetic strength available.”
He returned his attention to the atlas table, watching four familiar figures moving in obedience to Illan’s prophecy and falling, one by one, to the floor. A hitherto unseen future stream hovered in the background and, buoyed up by the power of Brax’s strength still flowing along their lien, he reached for it.
And smelled the pungent aroma of wet clay as he found himself in Dar-Sayer’s cave in the Gurney-Dag Mountains. The Petchan sayer had also instructed Graize in the ways of his people’s prophecy, but his agenda had been no more than a simple bond of obligation and the curiosity to see what his words would draw forth.
In the cool, mental silence caused by the mountain’s muting effect, Graize had paused to consider the question seriously. What did he want? The answer, however unwelcome, had been simple enough. He’d wanted Brax. Then and now. Boy and Man. But whether he wanted him alive or dead was still uncertain, now as then.
Graize studied the memory with a frown, his new stability causing him more confusion than clarity. When had it become uncertain, he wondered?
His own words came back to him.
“When are you gonna walk away from that fat piss-pot and the little cripple and make some real shine?
“I’ve seen it. A long time ago in a dream. I saw the two of us ruling the streets together.
“So, don’t go too far. I’ll only have to come and find you.”
And on the cobblestones of Liman Caddesi—the same street that wavered in and out of the waters now—he’d almost screamed at Brax to run, to save himself for the future he was certain they shared.
That he was still certain they shared. But to remain focused, to remain strong, he’d driven every other possibility from his mind the night he’d been snatched away by the spirits of the wild lands.
As the mental chaos struggled to return, he shook his head impatiently. No wonder Panos had seen it so clearly; no wonder Illan had believed he could manipulate it so easily. The way to blind a seer was to act unpredictably, and he had been about as predictable as the dawn.
Time to change that. As the sun of his vision began to force its way into the cistern with his revelation, Graize dragged Brax to the surface, one hand bunched in the front of his tunic and hit him a blow across the face that snapped his head back. As an ethereal line of blood welled up from his cheek, Graize bared his teeth at it, daring it to distract him. He raised his fist to strike again, and Brax’s eyes fluttered open. The other man squinted at him groggily as the years flipped back and forth between them, then Graize spun him about and hurled him toward Spar.
The two collided with a crash, sending the spirits about the youth flying in every direction, but they quickly regrouped and attacked again, filling the ethereal streets of memory with a broiling, blood-flecked mist.
As Spar snapped into a fetal position, arms wrapped about his head to protect his face, Graize felt the youth’s own memory of that night, a memory he’d never shared with anyone, not even with his kardos, sweep down the link they now shared with Brax.
He was cold and he was frightened. All his short life he’d known which way to turn, but with Cindar’s death, there was nothing but darkness and danger all around him, so he’d blindly followed Brax as they’d run for the uncertain safety of an unturned fishing boat under a wharf on Liman Caddesi.
He should have seen Graize and Drove before they practically crashed into them. He should have seen the spirits amassing in the shadows. He should have seen Drove flung about like a rag doll, the deadly shroud of spirits latched onto his body like misty lampreys. He should have seen Graize catch him by the back of the jacket and spin him into the street. He should have seen it. He should have stopped it. But he hadn’t.
He hadn’t seen Brax lift Graize into the air with a strength born of desperation and hurl him into the midst of the attacking spirits. But he had heard Graize’s scream.
He still heard it in his dreams to this day.
He hadn’t seen the midnight silhouette of the ruby-eyed figure wavering in and out of the darkness. Or seen the future stream appear as the figure reached for Brax and he’d reached for It. But he had felt Brax’s arms wrap about him as the older boy had tried to protect him from the spirits with his own body. And he had heard Brax cry out the words that had summoned a God, “Help us!”
He still heard that in his dreams as well.
But in this place and in this time there was no midnight silhouette and no summoning words to drive the spirits away; there was only the darkness and the danger that had surrounded him before.
His prophetic ability darted back and forth, desperately seeking a clear stream to navigate into until the strangest thread of power he’d ever felt trickled through his mind along a link he’d never expected it to come from, a thread of bronze-cast bells and marbled prophecy. It drew up another thread that tasted of gilded feathers and honey-sweet intrigue and, on that thread he found the stream of memory he’d been seeking.
“Who will you bring to stand against the white king and the fathomless prince?”
He bared his teeth triumphantly, recognizing the memory.
“I will bring my family.”
As the laughter became light, he followed it to a familiar chapel in the heart of Estavia-Sarayi and remembered.
He hadn’t seen Kemal and Yashar in the seer’s shrine the night that he and Brax had fought the spirits on Liman Caddesi either. But he had heard the story from every one of his self-styled abayon in Cyan Company. How they’d dropped to their knees, weapons across their palms, offering their worship and their service through Kemal to the God of Battles. How the bells from Anahtar to Lazim-Hisar had tolled, calling on the rest of Her Warriors to join with them, and how She’d responded even before the Invocation was complete, knocking Kemal off his feet and sending sprays of power shooting through the shrine like a thousand wicked little knives. How, with blood pouring from a dozen tiny cuts across his face and neck, he’d scrambled to find his sword, and how Yashar had retrieved it for him, wrapping his arms about his arkados and hauling him to his feet, the strength of his arms and the strength of his love flowing into the other man almost as heatedly as the strength of Estavia Herself. And how, together, they had called the God of Battles to a full physical manifestation on the streets of Anavatan.
Spar had counted on that strength just as he’d counted on Brax’s ever since; holding on to it with an absolute, unshakable certainty that they would always stand beside him.
Always.
Taking a deep breath to more fully focus his intent, Spar shot down the lien toward the two men waiting in the central shrine.
Kemal was the first to react. Shouting in surprise he nearly fell over backward as Spar’s need slammed into his mind. His hand flew out, catching Yashar by the shoulder and, as the older man’s steadying influence shot down their own lien, he righted himself.
“Spar!” he gasped.
Yashar’s hand clamped down on his arm. “How do we help him?”
“I think I . . . we . . .” Gripping the altar edge until his knuckles grew white, Kemal struggled to understand the barrage of emotions flooding into his mind. “I think we just remember.”
“Remember what?”
“Him. Us. Brax. Our family.”
“Right.” Straightening, Yashar slapped his other hand down on the altar top, using the cold, hard marble as a focus. “I remember . . .” He scowled as his mind drew a blank, then his expression softened. “I remember they were so young when they first came to us. So young, but so ferocious, both of them. So certain. Facing off against the whole command council, demanding they take them in, insisting that it was Her will. Remember?”
“I remember.”
“Spar hardly said a word in those early years. It was so hard to get close to him. Only Jaq could manage it at first.”
Kemal nodded. “And Brax. He worked himself into exhaustion trying to live up to Her expectations until he finally understood that asking for help didn’t make you weak, it made you strong.”
“You told him that here. He always came here.”
“And Spar always went high, to a wall or a rooftop.”
“Not now.”
“No.”
“We should have gone with them.”
Kemal closed his eyes, feeling the lien with both their delon stretch past the walls of Estavia-Sarayi to the small alcove beyond Lazim-Hisar. “We are with them.”
“Will it be enough?”
Kemal nodded. “Yeah. It’ll be enough.”
On the streets of memory, Spar felt the strength of his abayon flowing into him, and used it to force himself to rise to his knees. The nearest spirits fell back in confusion, but dozens more pressed forward. Ignoring them all, Spar scrambled about in the murky darkness until he found Brax lying, insensible, beside him. He caught him up and, holding him as tightly as Brax had once held him, sent his own power flowing down to him on the wings of a memory that had begun years ago as words from a powerful enemy lurking on the edge of his still-latent abilities.
“The Wall will not hold.”
Brax stiffened with a gasp and Spar bore down, keeping their attention locked on the memory of his response.
“The Wall has always held.”
“No, it hasn’t and you know it.”
The anger he’d felt as a delos lit up the waters with a gout of red flame as he spat out his answer in tandem with the memory.
“Brax’ll be her Champion; the greatest ever since Kaptin Haldin, and he’ll keep your stupid Wall from falling, you’ll see!”
The certainty of his nine year old’s belief merged with his fifteen year old’s and within the circle of his arms, Brax opened his eyes. The twin liens to both Spar and Graize made him see double, but then, as they also merged, the image of an atlas table swam before him. The silver-cast figurine stood frozen in place, but as he watched, a stream of possibility begun on a cold, moonlit night at Serin-Koy and traveling along the strength of a family’s welcome, opened up at its feet.
He followed it and Gol-Beyaz stretched out before him, its surface as calm as a sheet of clear glass. Before him, Estavia’s crimson gaze bored into his, and he heard his own words spoken with an equal measure of supplication and bravado.
“I need your help.”
And Her response.
“I WILL GIVE YOU WHAT YOU NEED TO BE MY CHAMPION. IN RETURN YOU WILL GIVE ME YOUR LIFE, YOUR WORSHIP, AND YOUR LAST DROP OF BLOOD TO DEFEND MY BARRIER.”
