by Fiona Patton
Moving quietly for all his bulk and exuberant personality, Bayard kissed his delos on the head.
“Are we interrupting, Evalaz?” he whispered.
The youth closed the book carefully. “No, Aba. We were just finishing up.”
“Good.” Crouching, Bayard took Chian’s limp hand in his.
“Kardos,” he said gently. “I’ve brought you a surprise. Look, it’s Kemin-Delin and Yash, come all the way from Anavatan to see you.”
Kemal stepped forward into the lamplight. For a moment it seemed as if Chian’s dull gaze brightened somewhat, but then the faint light of recognition faded again.
“I didn’t realize you were coming, Teya,” Evalaz said apologetically. “We took him out for some air today. It must have tired him. He’ll be more responsive in the morning if you’d like to visit again.”
Kemal nodded, his expression working to remain light and cheerful.
“He was happy about your new delon,” Evalaz continued. “I read him your letter several times. It made him smile.”
“We’ll write more,” Yashar said, coming over to lay a comforting hand on Kemal’s shoulder.
“Did Brax really stare down the entire temple command council?”
“More battered them into submission through sheer force of argument,” Yashar replied with a chuckle. “He’s very focused when he’s certain he’s right.”
“.He sounds like a battle-seer,” Bayard said, glancing down at Chian fondly.
“Estavia forbid we should have another one of those in the family,” Kemal answered, making his voice match the teasing quality in the other man’s tone. “One is enough. No, Brax is a warrior through and through. He and Spar have been reading the adventures of Kaptin Haldin.”
In the bed, Chian’s dark gaze suddenly misted over with a thick white fog, but when the others turned to him, his eyes were closed.
“We should go,” Bayard whispered.
“Yes. We’ll come back tomorrow before we leave,” Kemal promised.
Chian gave no indication that he’d heard, but as the three men filed out and Evalaz picked up the book again, he gave a slight jerk before his face relaxed into its usual slack expression once more.
At Bayard’s home, Brax gave an equally agitated jerk before sinking deeper into sleep.
He was dreaming; he knew that much. He stood on a flat, featureless plain surrounded by creatures of mist and claws. They came at him in twos and threes and tens and hundreds and he slaughtered each one, power slamming down his arm into the gem-encrusted sword She’d given him until he waded knee-deep in ethereal blood and entrails. But he never faltered; he was Estavia’s Champion, Kaptin of Her Warriors, Builder of Her Temple, beloved and favored above all Her followers, and he could fight forever with Her blessing. Her power burning through his veins like fire, he raised his head and screamed out Her battle cry, challenging any and all to come and fight until it felt as if his throat would burst.
And they came; wave upon wave of spirits pouring from the Berbat-Dunya, driven forward by a creature of unformed potential and driven mad by the power denied them growing behind the wall, Her wall. But safe within its bounds he could feel Her power also growing, and he doubled his own attack knowing that together they were invincible. As the last of the creatures died at his feet, he slumped to the ground, his sword arm throbbing in time with the beating of his heart.
He awoke with a start. For a moment, he stared wildly into the darkness, feeling the last of Estavia’s power thrumming through him, then, as his eyes adjusted to the moonlit room, he remembered where he was. And who.
Beside him, Spar and Jaq slept on, undisturbed by his dreaming, and he sat up with a groan, running one shaking hand across his face as sweat dribbled through his hair and down his neck. He felt like he’d been run over by a donkey cart. His throat hurt, and his arm hurt, and his chest hurt, but deep inside him, Her power still pulsed through his veins and he closed his eyes, savoring the sensation until it slowly faded away, leaving nothing but an aching void behind. Anxiously reaching for the familiar warmth of Her presence, he sighed in relief as he found it, then opened his eyes again.
Estavia’s statue stared down at him from its shadowy wall niche, its tiny ruby gaze glittering almost sardonically in the moonlight. He frowned at it, then carefully eased off the pallet. As Spar stirred sleepily beside him, he placed a finger against his lips, knowing the younger boy could see it—he’d always had the better eyesight of the two of them.
“It’s nothing, go back to sleep,” he whispered. “I just have to piss.”
The younger boy gave a faint snort and rolled over, arms about the dog again. As Brax groped for his clothes and his carefully hidden talisman, his thoughts chased themselves around and around inside his head. She’d sent him that dream; She had to have. She’d named him Her Champion, just as She’d named Kaptin Haldin all those centuries ago, and had gifted him with Her favor and Her power.
Having tasted it once, he had to have it again.
Slipping into his tunic, he made to step away from the pallet, then paused. Reaching down, his fingers found his practice sword almost by instinct. The hilt felt as comfortable and familiar as it had in the dream, but he knew this was no shining jewel-covered weapon of a God’s favor, only a blunt and awkward piece of metal meant to strengthen his wrist, not slay his God’s enemies.
But it would serve his purpose tonight.
Clutching it to his chest, he headed for where his memory told him the back door would be and, careful to avoid the dark shadows that made up each pallet and each sleeping figure, he slipped into the courtyard beyond.
The night air was chill, the ground cold but welcome beneath his feet. Making his way around the woodpile and the vegetable garden, he reached the back wall in half a dozen steps. Scaling it easily—his fingers and toes finding purchase on the rough stone despite the burden of the sword in one hand—he straddled the top, gazing out past the sleeping village to the bulk of Orzin-Hisar standing like a spike of shadow in the moonlight. He guessed he had about an hour before Serin-Koy’s priests of Havo climbed to its top to invoke the dawn.
Plenty of time.
Swinging his leg around, he resisted the urge to look back toward the wall—if thousands of hungry spirits hovered just beyond its protective barrier, he didn’t want to know it. Taking a deep breath, he launched himself into the darkness.
His feet hit cold, soft dirt. Something scratched across his face and he froze. Then, as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw that he’d landed in a small grove of immature cherry trees. Grinning ruefully, he ducked under their slender branches and headed swiftly down the main street toward Gol-Beyaz.
The wind had dropped when he reached the shore, leaving the lake to lie as clear and calm as a great pane of glass, as if even the currents were somehow moving under the shining surface rather than through it. Shivering, he made his way down the cold, sandy beach until his toes touched the water, then backed up a step.
“Now what?” his mind asked caustically.
“Now I call.”
“How?”
“Um ... I don’t know. The last time She just sort of showed up.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“You needed Her then.”
“I need Her now.”
“For what?”
The question echoed though his mind, making him suddenly doubt his intent. For what? For power? Was that enough? Closing his eyes, he remembered the intoxicating sense of invincibility Her presence had evoked, then the dull, empty ache as it dissipated.
“If She gave it to him, She can give it to me.”
The memory of his own words made him start, then he forced himself to straighten.
“Yes, it’s enough. It has to be.”
He reached out.
Deep within his mind, he felt a faint shudder as the God of Battles stirred, drawn by his ambition and by Her very palpable favor for him. With an equal mixtur
e of fear and anticipation, he reached out again, then gawked as one moment the moon was shining down on the clear, rippleless surface of Gol-Beyaz, and the next on Estavia, God of Battles, as She rose from the water before him.
Brax almost fell over backward.
In the small confines of Liman-Caddesi She’d been huge and terrible; here on the open waters of Gol-Beyaz She was that and so much more. Her flashing swords spun above his head in a constant blur of silver lightning while Her eyes bored into his like crimson flames, but all in absolute silence. When the tip of each sword blade snapped to a halt on either side of his jaw, his knees almost gave way. Struggling to find his voice, he could only make a slight scraping noise in his throat. The God bared Her teeth at him and, to his surprise, that calmed him. He looked up into Her eyes and his back straightened as Yashar’s words echoed in his mind.
“Estavia favors him.”
The God’s chuckle made him blush as he remembered that She could also read his thoughts. He almost backed up a step, then cleared his throat.
“I ...”
He coughed, then, scowling at his own cowardice, drew himself up.
“I said I would talk to You if You came,” he began, feeling stupid but not knowing what else to say. “So I have to ...” he trailed off, then tried again. “ ‘Cause I said I would. ’Cause I said I could.”
A ripple of amusement passed over the God’s feral visage even as six words spoken in his own, irreverent cadence echoed in his mind.
“SO TALK. WHAT DO YOU WANT?”
A dozen answers came and went before he realized She already knew; She just wanted him to say it.
“I want what Kaptin Haldin had,” he answered in a rush before he lost his nerve. “Everything he had.”
The God’s teeth gleamed in the ebony of Her face, Her expression fiercely eager, but with a warning deep within Her crimson gaze. He pushed on, regardless.
“He was your Champion. You gave him special powers, special...” He struggled to make sense of what he’d felt. “You loved him best,” he said finally.
“HE SERVED ME BEST.”
“So will I.”
“EASY TO SAY.”
“I’ll prove it. But...” he paused, his mouth suddenly dry.
“BUT?”
“But I need Your help. I can’t learn what I need to know by myself. I need You to ... I dunno, make it take.” He lifted the practice sword. “Make this take. Inside.”
Her eyes flashed red, and for a moment he thought he might have asked for too much, then Her left sword slowed, descending until it rested against his chest where the picture of Kaptin Haldin lay. The surprising strength of it, given physical weight by the power of his own desire, pushed him backward but he braced his feet in the cold sand, feeling the point just barely pierce through vellum into skin. Looking into Her eyes, he dropped all pretense of strength and courage and allowed the frightening, overpowering need he’d always kept hidden fill his own gaze for the first time in his life. For a heartbeat, Her right sword winked out of existence and he felt the soft brush of Her hand caress his cheek, then, with a lightning fast motion, the sword was back and slashing across his wrist. Pain shot up his arm and he nearly dropped the practice sword in surprise, but he gripped the handle and rode it out, refusing to cry out. As it lessened to a dull throb, the God bared her teeth at him in savage approval, then pointed inland.
Brax turned.
The wall shimmered a brilliant yellow in the growing light of dawn, the God-Power stretching its protective surface a mile into the air. It seemed impregnable, unscalable, but beyond it he could see massive storm clouds gathering to the west and he knew it wouldn’t be long before his dream was made real. The spirits were waiting out there, impatiently biding their time, testing and prodding each spring for some, for any, weakness they might exploit. One day they would find it and then they would attack.
And he would be there.
He turned back, nodding even as Estavia’s words echoed in his mind.
“I WILL GIVE YOU WHAT YOU NEED TO BE MY CHAMPION. IN RETURN, YOU WILL GIVE YOUR LIFE, YOUR WORSHIP, AND YOUR LAST DROP OF BLOOD TO DEFEND MY BARRIER.”
“FOREVER.”
Then She was gone.
He stood for a long time, staring out at the still water, feeling the last of the pain in his arm fade away. As the first note of Havo’s Morning Invocation reached his ears, he glanced down, expecting to see a deep, blood-pumping gash across his wrist, but where Estavia’s sword point had scored the skin, only the faintest outline of crudely drawn wall, like the symbols he painted each morning, remained. As he watched, it swiftly disappeared in the growing light, but he could still feel it, throbbing just beneath the surface.
For a heartbeat, he marveled at his own audacity, then a wide grin split his features. He’d called and She’d answered. He was favored of Estavia and he would become Her Champion, he would defend Her barrier, and nothing, nothing would get through it. Not ever. His head spinning with images of glory and of battle, he headed back toward the village. He couldn’t wait to tell Spar what had just happened.
In Bayard’s main room, the younger boy had been sitting up in bed for half an hour waiting for Brax to return, and watching the last of the moonlight dance across the floor. As Havo’s priests began the Invocation to their God, he cocked his head to one side. He should be back soon. Pushing away a tinge of worry, he absently stroked one of Jaq’s silken ears. Brax’d be all right, he told himself. She’d protect him. She liked him. She’d give him whatever he wanted, and Brax wanted to be Kaptin Haldin. Whatever that meant.
But what did he want?
Something deep into his mind seemed to freeze in anticipation as he considered the question. He’d never really thought about it; Cindar and Brax had always managed to get him whatever he needed before.
“Need and want are two different things.”
The words came into his head almost before he finished the thought on the heels of the now familiar tower image. He frowned. The image had been pressing against his mind again ever since they’d left Calmak-Koy, but it had never used actual words before.
“Are they?” he demanded experimentally.
“Aren’t they?”
He snorted. The words were Brax‘s, but the voice was his own, probably just to confuse him and keep him in the dark about who was actually in that tower, he decided.
“Is it?” the voice prodded.
“Shut up.”
“All right, but you asked what my price was before. Do you still want to know?”
“I don’t care, actually.”
“Don’t you?”
“No. ”
The voice went silent.
“He’s going to leave you, you know,” it continued after a moment.
“Who?”
“Brax. When She turns him into this great and important champion of Hers, he’s going to walk away and never come back. He won’t need you and he’ll forget all about you. He might even let you die, just like he let Cindar.”
The words were spoken in his own voice now, but Spar just shook his head in disgust, recognizing the ploy.
“Grow up,” he snapped. “I’m nine years old, not five.” Lying back, he pulled the blanket over his shoulders as he heard Brax’s familiar footfall outside the door.
“Don’t you want to know when it’s going to happen?” the voice insisted quietly.
“No.”
“How about how to stop it?”
Spar made no answer, but as Brax shed his clothes and slipped under the blankets beside him, he shivered.
9
The Tower
PERCHED ABOVE A ROCKY PROMONTORY jutting into the northern sea, Cvet Tower stood like a spike of sullen red fire in the cloudy sky. Built seven centuries ago by Duc Leold Volinsk as a beacon for his ships returning with tribute from their conquest of Anavatan, its great signal fire had never been lit; the Warriors of Estavia had sent his fleet to the bottom of the ocean, and a year later the
duc himself had been deposed by his cousin Anise Rostov. Believed to be haunted by the spirits of his long dead fleet, Cvet Tower was abandoned. It stood empty, staring blankly out across the sea at the distant shores of its defeat for six hundred and eighty years, until it was once again occupied by a Volinsk with designs against Anavatan.
In the south tower window, Prince Illan Dmitriviz Volinsk stood as still as the tower itself, watching the rain hammer rivulets of prophecy against the sea and mulling over the future. A tall man of twenty-one, dark-haired despite his ancient northern blood, with deep-set eyes that focused inward more often than out, Illan was believed to be one of the finest seers in Volinsk, but very few knew the true scope of his abilities. Or of his ambition. As the rain beat a steady pattern of possibilities against his mind, he turned from the window and crossed to the carved wooden atlas table standing in the center of the room.
Built in the southern style—in Anavatan itself, in fact, the knowledge of which gave him a deep sense of ironic satisfaction—its inlaid tiled surface had been designed to represent the sea and the three most powerful nations on its coastline; each one picked out in a different precious metal: silver for Anavatan, copper for Rostov, and gold for Volinsk. On each one a number of marble figurines carved as horses, people, towers, ships, and siege equipment had been carefully arranged.
Lifting one between finger and thumb, Illan studied it carefully. Something portentous was happening across the sea, something that was going to transform the tedious prophetic imagery of streams and pools and raindrops to the more exciting and useful imagery of fire. It would finally be truly advantageous for Volinsk, but this time there would be no ill-prepared fleet of ships sent out against a strong and God-protected foe by a brainless and imprudent ruler. This time they would allow the rot to settle in first, then they would act behind a mantle of political dissembling so thick that even Incasa, their God of political dissembling, would be unable to penetrate it until it was far too late. And the pivotal piece was the Anavatanon child, Spar.
