by Fiona Patton
“Then you should thank me. I summoned you here to discuss a potentially serious prophetic situation.”
“Which couldn’t be discussed in my office or in the audience chamber over a cup of hot salap?”
“Samlin says I need the fresh air. Apparently, my lungs are beginning to fail.”
An expression of concern replaced the one of mock annoyance on the marshal’s face. “Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”
The old woman just shrugged. “As odd as it may seem, no,” she said, watching a flock of storks make their way across the sky toward Gol-Beyaz. “When Estavia feels the need to call me to Her bosom, I won’t be bothering to discuss it with you or anyone else; you’ll just find me dead. Oh, don’t fret,” she added in response to the other woman’s concerned expression. “The Most Learned High Healer keeps filling me up with nasty little tinctures made from fish oil and whatever else he can scrape off the bottom of his shoe. Apparently, they’re strengthening. No, I need to talk to you about Bessic, the new First Oracle of Incasa who’s been writing me some very pressing and worrisome letters about Spar as of late. The delon’s abilities are waxing, despite his young age.”
The marshal glanced over to where Spar was standing in his usual place, systematically piercing a practice dummy in the chest with shaft after shaft, his expression blank and staring.
“Age,” she repeated. “Was it his upbringing or his experiences since that’s aged Spar so quickly, do you think?”
Elif gave an eloquent shrug that dropped the shawl about her shoulders into her lap. “Both, I would imagine.” She paused as Murad came forward to readjust it, then retreated out of earshot again. “But he’s not so old as he pretends to be,” she continued, her tone softening. “He still needs both nurturing and discipline.”
The marshal snorted. “You’re one to talk about discipline. You let him run away from lessons whenever he pleases.”
“He’s a seer. His lessons are different than mere weapons training and strategy.”
“Exactly. He needs religious training and practice in the seer’s circle, neither of which he’s had.”
“I’m waiting for a sign.”
The younger woman glanced over at her. “You know, I’ve always suspected that was just a seer’s ploy to get people off your back.”
Elif smiled. “Suspicion is not proof, Delin,” she answered, her cataract- and vision-filled eyes warming. “Besides, how much training outside the weapons’ circles has Brax completed?”
“That’s different.”
“Is it? Can he even write his name yet?”
“Writing’s an overrated skill for a soldier.”
“But not for a priest, and if he’s to be consecrated as ghazi-delinkos, he must be educated. Come Bray-Delin, it didn’t kill you, it won’t kill him. He’s close to his oath-taking, he needs more academics.”
“How close?” “Tanay says he crossed fifteen ten days after Havo’s Dance. He should be ready by next Low Spring. But ...” she held up one warning hand. “Brax glows with the silver light of Her favor. And it’s a hot light; too hot for his age. It might burn him out or the God might bear him up. Delinkon may not make their oaths before sixteen, but whether they receive the Gods Themselves before that has always been mere speculation.”
“So what you’re saying is that the ritual is actually meaningless?”
“Don’t get smart,” Elif snapped irritably. “You know very well that the ritual has meaning, it’s age that’s sometimes meaningless. But in this case Brax’s age is acting against him. He needs to learn how to read and write, Ghazi-Priest Marshal Brayazi.”
The younger woman raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Fine. I’ll have Kemal throw him in a sack tomorrow morning and force him to take lessons from Ihsan with Spar. Happy?”
Elif inclined her head graciously. “Yes, and in exchange I’ll suggest, but only suggest, mind you, that Spar join Brax in the shield circle in the afternoon. He’ll likely go, he wants Brax to be learned as much as I do, and so he may be willing to honor our exchange of hostages, but he may not. Don’t be surprised if he vanishes before then.”
The marshal shrugged. “If he vanishes, he’s easily found; he’s generally in the kitchens, and before you wonder, no, Tanay has not approached me regarding any shift in his training away from weapons and toward baking and pushing people around. But apparently Senior Abayos-Priest Neclan also wants to interview him.”
“I would imagine that’s because, like all of Oristo’s priests, she believes theirs is the only temple that can raise delon properly.”
“They may be right,” the marshal said, watching as Spar jerked a handful of arrows from the practice target with an angry expression.
“Bollocks,” Elif retorted bluntly.
“Hm. So you don’t think she wants him for his prophetic ability?”
Elif gave a dismissive wave of one gnarled hand. “Seers with such a strong gift as Spar’s do not serve at Oristo’s temple,” she sniffed. “Only Incasa’s and Estavia’s. But,” she held up one hand. “Don’t be so quick to rule out Tanay, regardless. I’ve always had my suspicions about her abilities and if she wants him, she may get him. They spend a lot of time together. Nothing is constant, Brax has proved that.”
“So, what do we do?”
“Nothing. It’s a long shot and if it happens, we’ll see it coming.” Her expression grew serious. “The machinations of Incasa’s temple, however, are an entirely different, much more dangerous, matter. And that’s why I summoned you, Marshal-Delin. As I said, the new First Oracle’s been taking far too strong an interest in Spar recently. The delon’s forays into vision have begun to disturb the streams.”
“The streams or the God of streams?”
“Both, likely. Bessic has asked for permission to interview him.”
“Why? Can’t their people see the future around the ripples caused by a ten year old?”
Elif just shrugged.
“Have you told Kaptin Liel?” the marshall asked.
“No, but Liel will be resistant, of course.”
“Good. Incasa’s temple’s never been happy with the autonomy of Estavia’s battle-seers. They’re always trying to lure the less combative ones away and they’re not getting Spar. He’s ours.”
“I shouldn’t worry about his being less combative,” Elif said mildly. “He’s far more aggressive than he seems. But it helps that we’re agreed; it saves us from having to convince you to hide him when Bessic arrives.”
“Which will be when?”
“Whenever you invite him.”
“How about next High Spring?”
Elif snickered. “I don’t imagine he’ll want to wait that long, but ...” she shrugged. “It’s your temple.”
“Not to hear Tanay talk. Or yourself for that matter.” Brayazi sat back on her heels with a grimace. “I suppose it had better be sooner than later,” she sighed. “But do you think we could we stall him for a few weeks at least?”
“Possibly. I’ve stalled him for as long already.” Elif frowned. “Something’s about to happen, Bray-Delin. I can feel it in my bones. And the visioning is changing from water to fire.”
“But isn’t that good? After all, Estavia’s imagery is fiery, isn’t it?”
“No, it is not good, Marshal,” Elif snapped. “Estavia’s manifestations are fiery, not Her imagery.”
When Brayazi just gave her a mystified expression, she clucked her tongue in annoyance. “Never mind. You’d understand that if you were a seer.” Her milky-white gaze tracked across the sky, watching the swirls of power wheel and turn like a flock of starlings seeking autumn berries. “A child of great potential still unformed standing on the streets of Anavatan. The twin dogs of creation and destruction crouch at its feet. The child is ringed by silver swords and golden knives and its eyes are filled with fire. It draws strength from Anavatan’s unsworn and will be born under the cover of Havo’s Dance.”
“Freyiz’s
prophecy.” The marshal tipped her head to one side. “Incasa’s temple has never fully explained its particulars to anyone’s satisfaction. At every Assembly it’s always the same: what is it, is it dangerous, what do we do about it? They always answer: wait.”
“The waiting may soon be over.”
“How soon?”
“Within the year, I’m thinking. The future is in motion, caused by something greater than whatever our little oracle over there is disturbing,” she added, nodding toward Spar who was now standing talking quietly with Brax on the other side of the training yard. “Something that’s been in motion for some time.”
“The prophecy.”
“Likely; a stream with many strands swaying back and forth like fine sea grass drifting in the ocean.” Her voice had gone wispy and soft and the marshal had to lean over to hear her. “A hundred futures, some ending in blood, others in flowers. Now where have I seen that imagery before?” She glanced up. “I’m getting old, Delin, old and forgetful.”
“Nonsense. You’re just tired.” As a fine, cool rain began to fall, the marshal stood, gesturing to Murad who came forward to lift up the old woman, blankets and all. “I think it’s best to be blunt with the First Oracle,” she decided. “I’ll write to him that he cannot see Spar this autumn whatever the streams may be doing. He’s too young and too vulnerable since he experienced Chian’s death. Perhaps sometime in winter if Samlin agrees.”
Elif nodded wearily. “Bessic was a patient delon as I remember,” she mused. “Good at teasing the wilier fish from the waters around Adasi-Koy. I don’t know if this new position has changed him, but I should think we have until Havo’s Dance at the latest before he gets really snippy.” She laid her head against her attendant’s shoulder. “I’ll let you know if that changes.”
“And what about the prophecy?”
The old woman grinned mischievously. “As Incasa’s temple keeps saying: wait. I’ll let you know if that changes, too.”
“Sayin ...”
“Delin.” She turned. “Murad, I’d like to visit the infirmary for a few moments. I feel the need for one of Samlin’s nasty little tinctures.” As her attendant turned to go, the seer reached out from her nest of blankets and shawls to touch the marshal lightly on one arm. “Our own stream should open up by Havo’s Dance at the latest,” she said. “Until then, be patient and do nothing.”
“Yes, Sayin.” Stepping back, Marshal Brayazi watched as Murad carried the old woman through the pairs of training fighters, all of whom paused to smile or salute her as she passed. Brax and Spar followed their progress with their eyes until they disappeared through the infirmary door, then they turned and made their own way to the infantry quarters, Jaq keeping close behind.
“Havo’s Dance it is,” the marshal said thoughtfully. “But no longer.”
15
Champions
ORISTO’S AUTUMN PASSED and, as Incasa’s winter squalls darkened the waters of Gol-Beyaz, those warriors remaining at Estavia-Sarayi settled down to a quiet routine of storytelling, gambling, and guard duty. The days grew shorter and the rains colder. The sun hid its face behind a constant veil of heavy, gray clouds and a bone-chilling mist that covered every surface, inside and out, with a damp, slippery coating of moisture. In Cyan Company’s quarters, Kemal and Yashar divided their time between their duties and their orders to keep Spar and Brax focused on religious and academic training. It was hardest with Brax who seemed increasingly unable to concentrate on anything that did not involve the sword, but even Spar had begun to show an un-characteristically stubborn disinterest, often disappearing from their rooms well before dawn. As the final days of winter brought a violent storm sweeping in from the northern sea to drive even the hardiest warrior into the dormitories, they eventually gave up. Spring would see warmer weather and then they could all concentrate a little better. Spar took the news with his usual elan; Brax breathed a sigh of relief.
Making his way down the quiet, spiral staircase that led to the temple’s central shrine, Brax shivered despite the warmth of a heavy woolen jacket. His face and hair were plastered to his skull from having spent the morning on the eastern battlements with Spar, standing below the great black marble statue of Estavia which stared out across the strait at Dovek-Hisar. The waves below’d had an icy sheen to them.
It had been the same six days ago when Spar had first led him there. The younger boy had stared down at the water for a long time before turning a pale, unfocused gaze on Brax’s face.
“Something’s happening,” he said bluntly.
Brax felt a corkscrew of worry twist in his belly. “Yeah?” he asked carefully, resisting the urge to rub his left elbow which had suddenly begun to throb dully. “Like what?”
The younger boy shook his head.
“You know, the last time you said that we ended up in a battle,” Brax observed, allowing a faint tone of reproof to enter his voice.
Spar just blinked the rain from his eyes before giving his familiar one-shouldered shrug. “I know.”
He fell silent again and Brax studied him with a worried frown. A season’s worth of warm clothes and heavy soups and stews had kept the winter pallor from the younger boy’s cheeks for the first time in his life. He was taller and heavier, and his hair which had always fallen limp and lifeless about his face, was now thick and shiny—or would have been if it hadn’t been soaking wet. He’d taken to wearing it long and loose like the temple’s battle-seers, with a single brown bead woven into one lock. He looked better than he ever had, but his gaze was drawing farther inward every day; sometimes it was hours before he even noticed there were other people in the room with him.
“Something?” Brax prodded as the wind began to whistle through his own hair. “That doesn’t involve us getting blown off the wall and drowned?”
The faintest hint of a smile touched Spar’s lips. “Maybe.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I’d hate to think I was out here for no good reason.” Resting his right elbow on the stone wall, he purposely ignored the irritated frown the younger boy turned on him.
“I needed to talk to you,” Spar said stiffly.
“And you couldn’t do it someplace dry?”
“No.” Spar’s brows drew down. “It’s too misty back there. I can’t see.”
Glancing up as the rapidly rising wind brought a heavy fog rolling in from the Bogazi-Isik Strait, Brax sighed. “So, what do you see out here?”
“Flowers the color of blood and gold strewn across a sunlit floor.”
Of all the things he’d been expecting to hear, that hadn’t been one of them.
Now, as Brax reached the bottom of the stairs, the sounds of the wind and the rain faded. Passing under an archway, he made his way along a narrow corridor until he came to a familiar wooden door reinforced with iron. A small wall niche to one side held a tiny bronze statue of Estavia and he laid his sword hand on his chest in salute before pushing the door open.
More a mausoleum than a chapel, most of the residents of Estavia-Sarayi avoided the central shrine out of respect for the man interned here, so Brax knew from experience that it would be empty of worshipers, but that the oil lamps to either side of the door would be over half full, the tall incense brazier in one comer no more than a third empty; the altar would be clean of dust, and its bowl of lotus flowers would be fresh and sweet-smelling. Crossing the shadowed room, he drew his sword and, after laying it across the altar, came around to stare up at the Battle God’s much larger statue standing in its high, domed alcove above Kaptin Haldin’s tomb. Under the weight of its crimson regard, he slowly felt himself calm as he had the first time he had come here so many months before.
Brax had been coming here every day since they’d returned to Anavatan last spring. It was the only place he could gain any respite from the God’s lien which kept up a constant, buzzing demand that he train, rain or shine, day in and day out, from the time he rose in the morning to the time he collapsed exhausted into bed at night wh
en even his dreams were filled with images of conquest and battle. Here in the shrine, however, the lien calmed as if willing to accept quiet homage in place of violent action for at least a little while.
Breathing in the deep comforting silence like a balm, he knelt to press his hands against the black marble slab that covered the body of Kaptin Haldin.
Traditionally, the Warriors of Estavia stood in ranks or sat astride before their God as they would do on the battlefield and, when he stood with them; he stood as one of them. Every morning and every evening he took his place with the older delinkon of Cyan Company, feeling the power of their God course through his body to join with every other wor shiper on Her parade ground and beyond. On the first day of Her High Summer he’d stood in the company shrine, listening while the adult warriors repeated the oaths they’d sworn the day they were accepted into Her service. The delinkon around him had stood rigidly silent, overawed by the heavy solemnity of the words, but he’d seen their lips moving as they’d spoken their own private oaths or repeated prayers of thanks or supplication they’d sent to Her in the past. Brax himself had breathed the words that had changed his life.
“Save us, God of Battles, and I will pledge you my life, my worship, and my last drop of blood forever.”
Even at a whisper, his voice echoed overloud in the empty shrine, and he closed his eyes as the resurging memory of Her response on Liman-Caddesi made him feel young and desperate again, the cold of the stone slab seeping through his fingers making him feel a little sick. Surrounded by Her soldiers he stood as one of them, but here, where the man She’d loved above all others lay beneath Her feet, he knelt as Her Champion. Reaching out with his mind, he imagined the body of Kaptin Haldin lying beneath him, still and quiet, while his spirit rested in the warmth of Her presence deep below the waters of Gol-Beyaz. It made him feel better somehow, closer to both of them. If he could have sunk down beneath the slab himself to become one with Haldin’s dust and bones, he would have.
