by Fiona Patton
Spar padded up behind him with a curious expression and he shook his head. “I don’t know, but it’s what She wants.”
Shrugging out of his nightshirt, he picked up a fine, bone-handled paint brush and, after running his finger along the soft bristles, popped the seal on a small jar sitting beside it. As Spar watched, transfixed, he dipped the end of the brush inside, wiped the extra off against the lip, then turned it so that it pointed toward him. Feeling Her hand wrap about his he watched as, together, they drew the outline of a high, wobbly minaret along his left arm. Its meaning became clear almost at once.
“That’s Anavatan,” he explained in a faraway voice, knowing that his certainty came from the God.
Taking the brush awkwardly in his left hand, he then traced a crescent moon cupped about two crossed swords along his right.
“And that’s Her temple along with ... Cyan Infantry Company. Told them so,” he added.
He then exchanged hands again and moved on to his chest, drawing a stick figure with a small knife in one hand, “that’s me,” another shorter one, “that’s you,” and one with four legs and a long tail. “That’s ... the dog?” His eyes cleared. “You’re not serious.” The replying mental swat made him raise one hand in quick compliance. “All right, all right, You are serious. Here.”
Spar shook his head as Brax made to hand him the brush, but after a moment, he dutifully narrowed his eyes, tracing the same symbols on his own body, before handing it back. Brax grinned as he wiped the brush clean on a piece of silk cloth lying nearby.
“See, I told you we were meant to be here. I can’t wait till the council hears about this.”
“I can’t wait either.”
The boys spun about to see both Yashar and Kemal leaning against the doorjamb. As the latter came forward, he glanced at their handiwork with an approving smile.
“Not too bad for your first protections. In time, the figures will be a little more detailed and a little less shaky.”
Brax glanced up at him.
“So everyone does this?” he asked.
“Every one of Estavia’s people do, yes. What the other Gods’ worshipers do, I couldn’t say.” He raised his sleeve to show the painted figures along his own forearm. “The symbols are the physical representations of the God’s protections.”
“They itch.”
“That’s the dye drying,” Yashar explained. “You get used to it.”
“How often do you have to do it?”
“We reapply them every morning.”
“Do they change?”
“Not usually.”
“Then why do you have to do it every morning?”
“Because the dye washes off as you sweat.”
“Doesn’t that make a mess?”
Yashar just shrugged. “That’s the laundry’s problem.”
Both boys exchanged a knowing glance. “Wouldn’t it be better to use a dye that didn’t wash off so fast?”
“No.”
“We reapply the symbols every morning so that we’re reminded of what we’re fighting for,” Kemal explained. “Home, Temple, the God, and our families.”
“Even your pets?” Brax interrupted.
“Anything we love.”
“I don’t love Jaq,” the boy countered, ignoring Spar’s indignant expression. “He took up way too much of the bed last night and he has dog breath.”
“I don’t much love him either,” Yashar agreed, “and for the very same reasons, but I have to add him every morning as well.”
“Well, sometimes it’s what the God loves,” Kemal noted. “Why, are you questioning Her already?”
His tone was much the same as Brax had used when asking Spar if he wanted to leave, but he took the question seriously, closing his eyes as he felt the growing warmth of the God flowing inside him. The thought of returning to a life without it made his chest ache.
“No.”
“There you are.”
“But ... what?” Brax paused as Spar elbowed him in the ribs. Following the younger boy’s gaze to the line of hair above Yashar’s collar, he rolled his eyes. “I’m not asking him that,” he responded sharply, knowing at once what was bothering him.
Spar continued to stare and finally Brax threw up his hands.
“Fine. He wants to know if you’re that hairy all the way down. It’s a stupid question,” he growled at the younger boy.
Kemal guffawed as Yashar nodded with an expression of mock seriousness.
“Even more so,” he answered.
“Everywhere?”
“Everywhere. Arms, legs. And back,” he added with an evil grin as Spar made a face.
“So, how does the dye get through all that to your skin?”
Yashar put his palms together. “The God commands.” He opened them. “And the hair parts for the brush.”
“You mean it moves?” Spar and Brax exchanged a sickly glance.
“He’s lying,” Kemal said mildly.
“I am not. The God loves hair on a man. She likes to run her fingers through it,” Yashar retorted, stroking his much thicker beard than Kemal’s with a superior expression. “It moves with Her touch like grain in the wind.”
Spar gave him a disbelieving glance, but Brax unconsciously echoed the movement with a frown.
“You’ll grow whiskers soon enough,” Kemal assured him in an amused voice.
The boy shot him a sour look. “I haven’t grown any yet,” he groused.
“You’re still a youngster.” He held up one hand to cut off Brax’s immediate protest. “You’re an adult when Estavia says you are and not before. When that time comes, you’ll have as much hair as you’re meant to have and no more, but...” he gave Yashar a warning glance. “She’ll love you regardless. And, in the meantime,” he gestured at the two piles of neatly folded clothes on an inlaid mahogany trunk by the bed, “get dressed and we’ll help you roll up the pallet; it’s time for breakfast.”
The news of their arrival had swept through the temple and the eyes of everyone in the refectory hall followed them as they made their way to the long, central table. Tanay had managed to find two reasonably new delinkon tunics in deep blue and even though they’d no sandals just yet, and Spar’s tunic was far too big for him, both of them made a point of carrying themselves as if they’d always worn uniforms. It was a gesture that was not lost on the gathered. Whispers followed in their wake and Jaq, padding along beside Spar close enough for him to rest one hand on his broad back as they walked, growled low in his throat at anyone who stared at them for too long. Finally, Kemal rapped him on the forehead with one knuckle.
“Stop that.”
At the central table the long line of warriors parted for them and Spar gaped at the size of the serving platters heaped with food, but it was only after Brax pushed him forward with a whispered, “Eat,” that he took up a huge piece of bread and began to pile olives, cheese, and stuffed vine leaves almost frantically on to it. Wordlessly, Kemal handed him a porcelain plate and he accepted it without breaking stride, adding another piece of bread liberally smeared with honey and four large chunks of mutton to the pile before turning his attention to the rows of ewers, jugs, and tall silver urns which lined one end of the table.
Beside him, his own plate heaped with smoked fish, bread, dates and dried apricots, Brax glared at a plain jug of boza then, ignoring a second jug of warm, milk-based salap, poured himself a cup of black tea instead. After a longing glance at the second jug, Spar also reached for the tea.
Over their heads, Yashar and Kemal exchanged a quick look. The older man reached for the jug and casually knocked Spar’s hand away as if by accident.
“Oh, sorry, Delin,” he said, “I was just getting myself some milk.”
Spar stared at him as he filled a tall, crystal glass, watching the thick, white liquid froth over the sides and across his fingers. “What, you didn’t think I got this big drinking tea every morning, did you?” Yashar paused. “Do you want some before I
put the jug back?” He winked at him and, with a shy smile of understanding, Spar took up a cup and held it out.
“Tell you what, why don’t you use a glass. It’ll hold more.” As the boy hesitated, he smiled. “Don’t worry; I know you won’t drop it.”
Looking dubious, Spar glanced over at Brax and the older boy just shrugged.
“Go ahead. If you break it now, it’s his fault for giving it to you.”
With a satisfied nod, Spar accepted the glass as Yashar chuckled. After filling it to the brim, he then laid a hand on the younger boy’s shoulder and guided him over to the cutlery table as Kemal glanced down at Brax.
“He follows your lead, you know,” he said quietly, as he poured himself a small cup of thick, black coffee. “And he’s not yet finished growing by a long way. He’ll need milk and the like to make him strong, so you might think about having a glass or two from time to time, if only for his sake.”
Brax glanced sideways at him, guessing at the unspoken words. “I wasn’t trying to act any older than I am,” he said defensively but in the same quiet tone of voice. “I drink milk sometimes. It’s just that tea’s cheaper.”
“Not here.”
“All right.” Deliberately, Brax set the teacup down and caught up another of the large crystal glasses. “You’ll need to pour it,” he said stiffly. “I can’t manage it one-handed.”
With a deliberately casual nod, Kemal lifted the jug.
Those gathered in the Cyan Company dining room were no less interested in them when they entered, but most greeted them casually, some raising their cups in salute, others just grinning at them as they passed. Once they were settled, with Jaq chewing noisily on yet another shank bone at their feet, Spar began to eat at once, but Brax glanced around with a frown.
“What’s the matter, Delin?” Yashar chuckled. “Don’t you like the decor?”
“What? No, it’s not that.” Brax turned his attention to his plate. “I just don’t like it when people stare at us,” he said tightly.
Kemal shrugged. “What do you expect? You’re famous. You’re messengers from the God.”
“That’s right,” Yashar agreed. “She led you to us as you said. You’re delinkon to ten thousand abayon now.”
Spar choked on his bread.
“I thought delinkon didn’t serve at the temple until they were sixteen,” Brax retorted sarcastically as he thumped the younger boy on the back.
“Well, think of it less like delinkon and more like ... mascots,” Yashar suggested. “Or good luck charms.”
“Delon will do,” Kemal corrected. “And you’ve no more than a few hundred abayon, anyway. You’re Cyan Company’s now. Kaptin Julide will make sure the council understands that.”
“That’s right,” Yashar agreed with a mischievous grin. “We helped to bring you into this world,” he said, taking in the gathered with an expansive wave. “And the God has given you to us.” He thumped his chest loudly.
Brax glared at the older man as the company murmured their approval, suspecting they were being mocked. “How do you mean, brought into this world?” he asked suspiciously.
“On the night the God of Battles manifested to save your lives, it was Cyan Company who offered up their strength to make it possible,” Kemal replied before Yashar could offer up a more humorously offensive explanation.
Food halfway to their mouths, both boys gave him a confused look.
“Well, the Gods don’t inhabit ... don’t live in the physical world, do They?” he continued. “It takes a lot of strength to enter it. Strength They gain from Their followers.”
“How do you mean?”
“All that we are and all we do either strengthens or weakens the God we worship. If we live strong, the God is strong; if we live weak, the God is weak. And sometimes when the God requires it, we gift Them with that strength in the form of pure power.”
Brax looked shocked.
“Haven’t you had any religious instruction at all?” Yashar asked.
Lifting his head, Spar gave another of his unchildlike snorts as Brax rolled his eyes. “The poor don’t need religious instruction,” he retorted, spitting a date pit onto his plate. “They need bread.”
“Well, there’s plenty of bread here and you’re not poor any longer. You’ve sworn your lives to Estavia’s service. How do you expect to do that if you don’t know how or even why?”
“So tell us why.”
As both boys stared at them expectantly, Kemal gestured at his arkados. “Go ahead, Yash, it was your idea.”
The older man sat back, turning his glass thoughtfully between his fingers.
“All right. Well, just so I don’t repeat myself, what do you know about the Gods?”
Brax shrugged. “Just what Cindar told us.”
“Which is?”
“That They’re only interested in the sworn. And the rich sworn at that.”
“Cindar was wrong. The Gods are always interested in all the people.”
“So why don’t they help the poor?”
“Oristo’s temple helps the poor, don’t they?”
“Sure, for a price.”
“Which is?”
“Worship,” Brax sneered.
“What’s wrong with worship?”
After stuffing a piece of fish in his mouth, he shrugged again. “It shackles you.”
“Shackles?”
“You know, it keeps you from doing the things you need to do, like leg irons would.”
“You mean it keeps you from doing things you shouldn’t do. Things like stealing?”
“That and other things.” Brax took a long drink of milk, then carefully set the glass down. “It works well enough when you’re rich,” he continued, “but not when you’re poor. The Gods don’t make bread magically appear, do they?”
“No, but they do create the opportunities you need to work for bread.”
“For some maybe, but not for everyone. Not for us. Cindar did that for us. We worked for him and he fed us, kept us safe. The Gods didn’t do that.”
“One might argue that it was the Gods who gave you to Cindar in the first place.”
“Then the Gods can’t have a problem with stealing because Cindar was a thief and he taught us to steal.”
Kemal snickered. “Point, Yash.”
The older man grimaced at him. “Maybe,” he allowed. “I’m no theologian, I’m just a ghazi-priest. My point, however, is that if the Gods didn’t care about the poor, then why did Estavia help you? Why did She come to your aid and lead you here as you keep insisting so vehemently?”
“Because I asked Her to.”
“That’s right. You needed help, you called out, and the God responded. If you hadn’t believed She might do that, you never would have tried in the first place.”
“Sure I would of. She showed up before I called.”
“Then She must have known you needed help before you did.”
“So why didn’t She help us before?”
“Maybe you didn’t need help before.”
Both boys gave him an impatient look, then Brax just shrugged. “All right, whatever. Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did She help us?
“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Her.”
Brax and Spar exchanged a cynical glance.
“The Gods have Their own agenda,” Yashar continued. “Maybe the possibility of your worship was enough or maybe She just liked the look of you, I don’t know. I do know that by accepting your worship, Estavia accepted your strength. That could be reason enough.”
“But why would She need it? Why would She care about it? She’s a God.”
Yashar rubbed at his temples. “We told you, the Gods need the strength of Their worshipers to manifest in the physical world. They aren’t physical creatures by nature, They’re spirit. And They aren’t all-powerful, Delin; even minor manifestations take a great deal of energy.” He shook his head. “Didn’t your abayon ever tell you t
he story about the birth of the Gods?”
“No, I told you Cindar didn’t worship Gods. And he didn’t tell stories, especially not about Them.”
“And you never heard it in the marketplace? It’s a very common tale.”
“We had other things to do in the marketplace.”
“And we won’t follow that line of inquiry too closely,” Kemal interrupted.
“Fair enough. Why don’t you tell them the story,” Yashar suggested, gesturing to a delinkos to bring him a cup of tea. “I’m worn out from all his arguing.”
“All right.” Kemal set his coffee cup to one side. “Once upon a time, a very long time ago,” he began, smiling as both Brax and Spar rolled their eyes at the traditional beginning, “there was a shining, silver lake of power called Gol-Beyaz and deep beneath its surface dwelled six mysterious beings of vitality and potential, for in the beginning the Gods of Gol-Beyaz were spirits much the same as the ones who attacked you the night before last.” At Brax’s disbelieving sneer, he raised a hand in defense. “Honestly. Over time ... over a very long time, they began to ... interact with the people who settled along the lake shores. They had no more form than mist on the water then, but they had power, great reserves of raw, unformed power, and as the centuries passed and their association with the shore dwellers grew, they slowly ... association means to spend time together,” he explained as both boys frowned at him.
Brax raised a cynical eyebrow at him but said nothing.
“As they spent more and more time together,” Kemal continued, “a deeply symbiotic ... I’m sorry, um, a mutual ... no wait ... a very strong bond grew up between them; the shore dwellers came to depend on the lake spirits for power to protect them from their enemies—raiders from the plains, mountains, and the northern and southern seas—and the lake spirits relied on the shore dwellers to give them access to the physical world and a form able to physically impact upon that world as a defense against their own enemies, other envious spirits of these very same plains, mountains, and seas, who wished to take the power of Gol-Beyaz for themselves.
