by Fiona Patton
“But they failed.”
He nodded. Breathing in the few tiny spirits that had returned to hover about his lips, he gave her a toothy smile. “I sucked theirs away instead.”
“So you’re strong, then, that’s good. The Yuruk can’t afford to coddle weakness.”
Kursk gave her a deep frown at this discourtesy.
“Well, we can‘t,” she protested. “Abia said so.”
He sighed. “Your abia’s from the west. They live a harsher life.”
“My abia came east to find new blood to breed with,” she told Graize proudly. “She picked my aba because he was the strongest and fastest kazak on the Berbat-Dunya.”
“She told me she liked my tent,” Kursk said mildly.
Rayne ignored him. “Where’s your abia?” she demanded.
For a moment Graize thought he could remember soft arms and an expression of pain and love, before it, too, vanished like the image of the gray-eyed man.
“I never had one,” he said, the defensive tone back in his voice, but Rayne just gave him a sympathetic look.
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “You don’t miss what you never had,” he said carelessly.
She touched him on the hand, her expression gently disbelieving. “Yes, you do.” She straightened before he could answer. “When I’m ready to have children, I’ll do the same as my abia,” she continued. “I’ll be the most powerful wyrdin in the Rus-Yuruk and I’ll go out and find the strongest, fastest kazak there is and make him mine. He’ll have to be strong in mind and in body,” she added, “strong enough to control the spirits and make them talk to him, and strong enough to ride all night long and raid a fat and lazy village in the morning.” She studied him speculatively. “You seem strong,” she noted, “but are you fast?”
Graize felt his cheek go unaccountably red. “I ... uh...”
“Raynziern, go and ask Ozan to heat up some kimiz,” Kursk interrupted sternly.
“Yes, Aba. Oh, here,” she dropped Graize’s beetle into his hand before skipping from the tent. Clutching it tightly, he watched her go with a dazed, but equally speculative expression, ignoring Kursk’s frown of disapproval.
She returned with the cup a few moments later. While Graize drank the unfamiliar fermented drink, Kursk washed each of his wounds with a comfrey-and-rosemary tincture, then eased a clean tunic over his head. Graize allowed the ministrations in silence, gathering his scattered sense of self and watching the sun beyond the tent flap pour through the gathering clouds like a spill of fire. Behind it, the spirits merged and flowed, waiting for nightfall to breach the walls of... He shook his head as the thought slipped from his mind.
Kursk followed his gaze. “It’s a fire sun tonight,” he noted conversationally as he handed Rayne the blood-soaked clothes. “Here, burn these.
“A harbinger of your blood and gold and a fine morning ahead,” he continued.
Graize blinked as a dozen tiny spirits whispered their prophecies in his ears. He sucked up the largest of them, feeling its energy flowing down his throat in a gush of warm potential. “It’ll be a cold morning,” he answered in a distant tone, passing on its words. “But it won’t snow.”
“It rarely does on the plains.” Tucking the tincture into his saddlebag, Kursk straightened. “Have you ever seen the snow, child?”
Graize’s mist-filled eyes grew very wide, the left pupil opening significantly farther than the right. “I see it now,” he answered. “It’s snowing on the southern mountains’ sides where the spirits can’t feed. The people are too strong for them there. Just like here.” He smiled. “So they’ll go to the shining city.”
“Anavatan.”
“Yes. They broke through last night and they’ll try again tonight while Havo’s Dance still hides their movements.” Lifting his hand up to his face, he stared at the spirit entwined around his fingers. “You won’t get in, though, not now,” he told it gravely. “The Gods are watching now.” He shook the spirit free and it feathered about his ears until it came to rest entangled in a lock of hair. “But they’ll try, anyway,” he said, returning his attention to Kursk. “‘Cause there’s so much there to feed on. It calls to them all the time. It drives them mad for it. But they can’t feed, not until we open the gates for them,” he added. “Then they’ll feed.” Watching as a half formed future blossomed in his mind, he nodded. “And so will we.”
Kursk’s gaze moved with deliberate casualness to the boy’s face. “We?” he asked.
“Yes.” Graize stared out at the setting sun again, watching as his lights took up the future, fleshing it out like a street poet might for a handful of coins. “But not now,” he explained, “not yet, but one day very soon. We’ll attack the shining city and feed the spirits ... and the lights,” he added silently.
“Oh, and why would we do that?” the Yuruk leader asked, carefully masking his sudden interest.
“Because the city and its villages walled off the lake of power.” Smiling, Graize watched as the events of centuries past played out before his eyes like misty shadow puppets. “They’ve grown fat just like their Gods while others have grown thin. And hungry.” His eyes cleared. “The Yuruk have attacked the villages every year to try and break through the God-Wall around the lake of power. Everyone knows that. This shouldn’t surprise you,” he added reproachfully.
Kursk shrugged. “We’ve never gotten away with more than a small flock or two,” he answered in an even voice. “We’re always driven back by the Warriors of Estavia. Their seers always know when we’re coming.”
Graize smiled coldly. “Not this time,” he whispered almost to himself as he watched the future unfold. “This time the lights will guide us and the spirits of the wild lands will hide us. We’ll flow over the God-Wall like a river, and the spirits will flow with us. I can see it.” He raised one hand to caress the image playing out before him, then yawned suddenly. “But not tonight. Tonight the Gods are awake and expecting a fight. They’ll protect the city tonight. They’ll eat all the spirits. But then They’ll think They’ve won and They’ll go back to sleep in Their silvery beds of broken marble and shimmering lake water and the people will get fatter and fatter and then we’ll attack.”
“Well, that’s wise,” Kursk allowed. “You never arrive when your enemies are expecting you and have had time to lay out a meal of their choosing.” He smiled as Graize’s eyelids began to droop. “So for now, come and eat a little something of my choosing before you go to sleep. There’s cheese and flat bread, even a bit of mutton to make you strong.”
“I am strong.”
“Stronger, then.”
Graize nodded, his gaze trailing back to the setting sun. “And fast?”
Kursk frowned. “That remains to be seen.”
Graize smiled slyly. “Fast.” He closed his eyes. “One day we’ll attack the shining city, but we’ll attack ... another place sooner,” he murmured as the lights supplied him with the name of a shadowy village that wavered in and out of sight. “We’ll attack ... Yildiz-Koy this season before the ewes have finished lambing.”
“Will we now?”
“Yes.”
“And the Warriors of Estavia?”
“Will be busy protecting the villages to the south. I can see them, standing tall and strong and alert. But the threat there is a feint.” He frowned as the lights showed him a fleet of oddly shaped ships sailing up the southern strait toward Gol-Beyaz. They fluttered like the flame from a half empty lamp before guttering out before the image of a tall red tower and a golden sun. “This season anyway,” he added.
“A feint?”
“Yes; a false trail laid by a tower on the sea.”
“To draw them away from Yldiz-Koy?”
Graize gave his sly, sleepy smile again. “Oh, no. It had nothing to do with Yildiz-Koy at first, but now that’s changed,” he said as the lights fed him new images. “Now something special will come there and we’ll get away with more than just a small flock or
two.”
Kursk shook his head in wonder. “How do you know all this, child?” he asked.
Graize opened his eyes, watching as the dark-haired boy from his earlier visions appeared then disappeared behind a silver storm cloud. “The lights told me,” he answered truthfully.
“The lights?”
“The ones that came to me last night. They speak to me through the stream of prophecy they burned through my veins. They swim in that stream and so do I.”
“And they told you we would attack Yildiz-Koy?”
Graize smiled coldly, his eyes perfectly clear for the first time. “That,” he acknowledged. “And other things.”
Later, after Graize had eaten his fill and fallen asleep, Kursk and Ozan stood, staring at the last streaks of sunlight along the horizon and listening with half an ear to the sounds of the camp behind them. Far above their heads, the first stars were beginning to twinkle through the breaks in the darkening clouds and Ozan studied them intently as he strummed quietly on his kopuz.
“Is he mad?” he asked after a time.
Kursk shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Is he human?”
Kursk watched as dozen spirits swirled around the tent flap. “Yes.”
With a grin, he clapped his kardos on the back. “He’s a wyrdin—a prophet,” he said. “Our prophet. One day we’ll flow over the walls of Anavatan and the spirits will flow with us,” he added in Graize’s strange, singsong accent.
Ozan’s face brightened. “Did he say that, truly?”
“Yes, truly. Apparently we’ll attack Yildiz-Koy this season while the Warriors of Estavia wait for a threat to the south which will never materialize.”
“Will we, truly?”
“Perhaps. We have to weigh the possibilities and speak with Timur. Whatever the child may turn out to be, Timur’s still our most senior wyrdin, not me. It will ultimately be her decision.”
Ozan nodded. “And I imagine Danjel will have a thing or two to say about it as well.”
“No doubt.” Kursk laughed suddenly. “Still, why not? Yildiz-Koy’s as good a place as any to mount a raid against, is it not?”
“It is.” Ozan showed his teeth in eager anticipation. “I’ll tell the others. They’ll be pleased.”
Kursk nodded. “Yes, they will.” As the last slip of sunlight faded from the sky, the Yuruk leader turned his gaze to the storm clouds gathering to the southwest through the boy’s drops of fire and gold and nodded grimly to himself.
“They’ll be very pleased.”
5
Spar
“THEY CANNOT STAY HERE.”
Late that night, in one of the temple’s huge guest wing apartments, Brax lay back against a pile of overly soft cushions and stared into the darkness, the words of the Battle God’s command council echoing in his head. Beside him, Spar slept with his arms around the man Kemal’s big red dog, too full of food and drink and too exhausted to care about the future. But Brax cared. They’d faced death, hunger, priests, life-sucking spirits, and halberd-wielding sentinels, indentured themselves to a God of warfare and bloodshed, and walked all day long at Her order to get here, and here was where they were going to stay. Standing in the center of the huge, vaulted, and windowless command chamber that looked more like a prison cell for rich merchants than a military council room, he’d spelled out the God’s plans for the two of them, but even after Kemal had added his voice in support, the council had remained stubbornly unconvinced.
“Delon do not live at Estavia-Sarayi.”
He snorted. Kaptin Omal of Indigo Infantry Company had been pretty adamant about that, as if it mattered. The Battle God had sent them to Estavia-Sarayi, so that was where they were meant to be. The dog had understood that right away—he hadn’t left their side since they’d woken up. Kemal had taken a bit more convincing, but eventually he, too, had understood.
“She fed us; we didn’t steal anything!”
He’d had been dreaming of wind and rain beating down on a silver mist-covered plain surrounded by lights when a small noise had jerked him awake to find a tall bearded man in a dark blue tunic watching them from the doorway. Cursing himself for letting his guard down so completely, he’d leaped up, thrust Spar behind him, and drawn his knife. His vehement denial of wrongdoing had been the first thing out of his mouth.
The man had reacted with a smile.
“I’m sure you didn’t steal anything, Delin. No one steals from the temple of Estavia. But ... what are you doing here?”
“I told you, She brought us here.” Tucking his knife into his belt, Brax straightened with a scowl. “We’re to be warriors, both of us. She said so.”
The man grinned openly at that. “She did, did She? And did She also specify what company you were to join?”
Brax glared back at him. “No, but She would if I asked Her to. Should I?” His tone was challenging, but the man just chuckled.
“No need, Delin”
Brax bridled at the second diminutive. “It’s Brax,” he said stiffly.
“My apologies. Brax.” The man turned to Spar, who edged a step farther behind the older boy as Jaq began to sniff at him cautiously. “And you are?”
“He’s called Spar.”
“Can’t he answer for himself?”
“He can, he just doesn’t want to.”
“Why not?”
“Because he doesn’t know you.”
“Fair enough. My name is Kemal. That’s Jaq. He seems to like you, Spar,” he added, as the younger boy began to hesitantly scratch the great, red head that had stuffed itself under his hand.
Brax narrowed his eyes. “You’re a warrior?” he asked suspiciously, refusing to be lulled by the man’s gentle tone.
“And a priest.”
“A priest?”
Kemal smiled at his suspicious tone. “All Estavia’s warriors are priests. Why, don’t you like priests?”
“No. They’re ...” Brax hesitated, searching for a word that was accurate enough without being too insulting and settled on, “pushy and they think they know everything.”
“Well, this priest doesn’t.” Kemal’s expression grew sober. “What happened to your face, Brax?”
The softly asked question was as unexpected as the concern in the man’s voice. Suddenly noticing the red welts and scratches on Kemal’s own face and hands, Brax shrugged with studied indifference.
“Nothing really. Why, what happened to yours?”
“I took some injuries last night conducting a ritual to manifest the God of Battles.”
“That’s when we got ours, too.”
Kemal’s face twisted in distress. Coming forward, he knelt down and, taking Brax’s hand in his, studied the wide red marks across the back of his knuckles, then up to the ugly red wound on his cheek. “Then I’m responsible for your injuries, for both of yours,” he said.
Brax blinked. “Why? Did you call the spirits up, too?”
“Spirits?”
Brax exchanged a glance with Spar. “You know, the spirits that attack the unsworn on Havo’s Dance?”
Kemal stiffened. “The unsworn? You’re unsworn, both of you?”
“We were until last night. We got caught out on the streets and the spirits attacked us. If Estavia hadn’t shown up and destroyed them all, they’d have sucked the life right out of us, like they did to Gr ... to two others.”
“And this happens frequently?”
“What’s that?”
“A lot?”
“Sure. You know, that’s why nobody goes out on Havo’s Dance.” At Kemal’s mystified expression, he continued. “The spirits used to just suck the life out of things like spiders and mice, sometimes a sick rat, but last year they started on the feral dogs and cats. That made them strong enough to go after people, but they can only get to the unsworn, so we keep under cover when they’re out hunting.” He frowned. “You really didn’t know all this?”
Kemal sighed. “Delin, until yesterday I didn’t even know the
re were unsworn, never mind that the spirits of the wild lands could enter Anavatan to prey on them.”
Brax gave him an incredulous look but didn’t reply as Kemal sat back on his heel.
“Clearly, there’s a lot I don’t know,” he said with a sigh. “All right. Tell me exactly what happened last night.”
Brax had barely finished when Kemal’s arkados, Yashar, had shown up with the head of the temple, Marshal Brayazi. After making Brax go over the events of last night for the second time, she immediately called a full command council. By the third explanation he was getting a little tired of talking. The council hadn’t helped.
“How many of these unsworn reside within the city walls?” Kaptin Liel of Sable Company asked bluntly, leaning forward to fix Brax with a seer’s intense stare.
“I dunno. Lots.”
Kaptin Omal gave a snort of disbelief. “In the City of the Gods? Impossible.”
“Why? Not everyone wants some God telling them what to do every moment of every day,” Brax shot back, fed up with trying to explain something that seemed to him to be an unimportant detail.
The kaptin bridled at both his words and his tone, but the old woman, Elif, raised one wizened hand to forestall an outburst.
“The youngster has lived in a different world, Omalin-Delin. Let it go. He’s here now, sworn, as we are, to Estavia, and come to warn us that ethereal creatures of mist and unquenchable hunger—which we now know to be the spirits of the wild lands—have breached the walls of Anavatan during Havo’s Dance. As, I might add, we have long feared they might do with the capital situated, as it is, so far from Gol-Beyaz. He’s told us that the spirits draw strength from the unsworn and that the unsworn are numerous, so this leads us to one question, not how is this possible, but rather, how do we combat it?”
“So, how do we combat it, Elif-Sayin? How do we fight ethereal creatures of mist and hunger?” Omal demanded in as respectful a tone as he could muster. “In battle it is Estavia who combats the spirits of the wild lands, not Her warriors.”
