by Fiona Patton
He reddened, imagining what Spar would think of this feeling were he ever stupid enough to actually tell him. The sneer the younger boy would turn on him would be so cutting it would likely kill him on the spot. And in a way he’d be right. It sounded far too melodramatic and gruesome, even a little bit obscene, to actually be real, but it was the only way Brax had to describe what was more of a deep, bone-filling need than a simple emotion. He had no idea if the rest of Her warriors felt this way. He was far too embarrassed to ask Kemal or Yashar, but he supposed that it didn’t really matter. Estavia knew it and accepted it, was greedy for it in fact, as greedy as a child standing beside a traveling confectioner handing out free rahat loukoum; greedy for them all, the sweets, the tray, even for the confectioner. For that matter, greedy for the sweet shop, the market it resided in, and the city which held the market. The tingle of amused and avaricious agreement made him smile.
Now, closing his eyes, he reached into that tingle, feeling Her presence in the underlying warmth that always began in his chest, then spread down to his belly and groin, his arms and legs, his hands and feet, and finally to his face. Once it had filled him like a pool of deep, liquid fire, he asked that it be directed down and through the stiffened scarring that curved along his shield arm. The responding trickle of warmth made him tip his head back with almost drunken pleasure.
The physician-priests of Usara at Serin-Koy had been uncertain if he’d ever regain the full use of his arm. At Kemal’s request they’d petitioned the God of Healing for aid, but even after that God’s gift of power their prognosis had been doubtful; the Yuruk’s attack had shattered his elbow, Graize’s corresponding blow had torn the surrounding tissue almost beyond repair, but Brax believed that Estavia would not let him be crippled. He’d suffered the healers’ ministrations, both there and in the temple infirmary after they’d returned to Anavatan, following their orders about medicine and exercise, but every day he’d come here to the very center of Her temple and sent his need to his own God, the Battle God; his need and his unshakable belief in Her love and in Her power. And every day She responded, sending a thin line of Her own hot and blood-red power through the damaged bones and muscles, making them stronger—not healing them perhaps, for that was not within Her sphere of influence, but definitely making them stronger. Now, although his arm often felt thick and heavy, like it was carved out of wood, there was very little pain or weakness in the joint. He could carry a shield and wield it well enough to ward off a blow. That was all that mattered.
As this latest line of power grew, then faded, he sent Her a quiet prayer of thanks, laying his right hand on his chest once again, then turned and sat at the edge of the tomb, resting his back against the altar as Kemal had done so many months before. Now that he was calm and hale, he could mull over the rest of Spar’s strange revelation in peace.
The younger boy had turned eyes gone unusually dark on Brax’s face, and he’d felt a thrill of disquiet as Spar had begun to speak.
“We’ve been here almost a year,” he said in a tone that suggested that Brax would understand the underlying meaning in the words, but when the older boy just gave him a blank look in reply, he snorted impatiently. “A year this Havo’s Dance,” he expanded. “Last Havo’s Dance the spirits of the wild lands broke through the wards on Anavatan’s walls and flowed through the streets like a river of death.”
Brax made a face at him, wondering why, in all the years of near silence, Spar had chosen this time to get poetic, and wishing he’d done it inside by a warm mangel instead of outside in the fog and in the wind.
“This Havo’s Dance will be in nine days,” Spar continued.
“So?” Brax finally answered, forcing his voice to remain casual as he realized where the younger boy was going with this. “It’s different now; everyone’s been warned, yeah?”
“So?” Spar threw his word back at him.
“So, they’re ready for it this year.”
“They are. You aren’t.”
“Me?”
Something soft like a flying insect flitted past them and Spar turned a dark gaze in its direction. “Don’t even try it,” he hissed, before returning his attention to the older boy, then frowned. “What?” he demanded as Brax favored him with an alarmed expression.
“What was all that about?”
“Territory.”
“What?”
“Never mind, it’s not important right now. Something’s gonna happen,” he said, repeating his earlier words. “Something’s that’s already started. They can’t stop it.” He turned away to stare down into the churning water below them. “They might not want to,” he added quietly almost as an afterthought. “But I don’t care what they want; I don’t care what any of them want!”
His tone had become so savage that Brax took an involuntary step backward and Spar shook his head ruefully. “But I do care about you,” he continued in a slightly more moderate tone. “So I need you to listen to me, really listen to me like you used to. Do you remember?”
“Sure.”
“No, I mean actually, really remember! Like when I said you were in danger back then, you listened! You have to listen now!”
Brax raised both hands. “All right, Spar, I’m listening now.”
“You’re in danger. I’ve seen it.”
“All right. How?”
Spar glared at him as if he’d been expected a different answer and suspected a trick. “Something’s gonna happen on Havo’s Dance; something with the spirits. You’re gonna get dragged into it, and if you go in unprotected, you’ll die.”
“I’m protected by Estavia.”
“No, you aren’t.”
“Spar...”
“Shut up! ”The younger boy turned on him furiously. “You’re not! You’re so... so ... delusional!” he shouted. “And don’t ask me what that means, you know what it means! You wanna be Kaptin Haldin, you want everything he was, and everything he had, right? Well, he wasn’t fifteen, Brax!”
The look on his face dared the older boy to make some facetious comment about being almost sixteen, but Brax just held his mouth closed and waited. After a moment, Spar turned back to the waves.
“Do you remember the book,” he asked suddenly.
Brax blinked. “What book?”
“The jeweled book we saw that first day, the one you said was so ugly.”
“No.”
“The book on the dais. In the armory,” Spar said between clenched teeth.
“Oh. Yeah, that book.”
“Did you ever wonder what was in it?”
Brax fought back a sarcastic smile. “Um ... since I didn’t even remember looking at it, you can figure that would be a no, right,” he ventured. “Why?”
Spar closed his eyes for half a moment and Brax could see him counting slowly. When he opened his eyes again, they were back to their usual color. “It’s a history,” he said more calmly. “A journal, from ancient times to now. The priests of Ystazia write in it sometimes.”
“Yeah? So why is it here instead of at Ystazia-Sarayi?”
“To guard it.”
“Against what?”
“Readers.”
Brax risked a disbelieving face. “I thought the priests of Ystazia figured reading was a sacred duty. Aren’t they always after everyone to learn how?”
“No, they’re always after you. Most people would be thankful for the gift of it.”
“Most people can’t afford the gift of it,” Brax countered gently. “The priests usually charge for it.”
- “Whatever. The book,” Spar repeated.
“Right. The history.”
“It’s a history of the things the Gods won’t speak of.”
Brax went quiet.
“Others—mostly the priests of Incasa—believe something happened during those years that the Gods want shrouded in mystery.”
“Can’t they just ask?”
“They have. No one’s ever received an answer. Ask Estavia yourself.
See what She says.”
Brax closed his eyes, remembering the heavy silence that had greeted his request. When he opened them again, Spar was regarding him with a knowing expression.
“So, how come the priests of Ystazia can write it down at all?” the older boy asked.
“It’s what they do.”
“Huh?”
“The priests, they write down what happens as it happens. They give it form.” Spar explained. “The Gods can’t stop them ‘cause it’s what they do, it’s what they are, priestly scribes. If the Gods tried to stop them, They’d lose worship.” His expression grew bitter. “So they’d lose power. But that means that even years later when the Gods have decided that they don’t like what happened or maybe don’t want anyone to know how it happened, the words are still there, written down. Given form. Words have power, especially written words.”
“So, what’d the words in the book say?”
“I don’t know.”
Brax shot him an exasperated glance and Spar just waved a dismissive hand back at him. “Ihsan let me look at it a couple of days ago. The first few pages are written in a language no one can read anymore, but it’s also got pictures. The first one was of Estavia standing above a woman, Marshal Nurcan, I think Ihsan said her name was; the first Marshal ever. She looked just like Estavia; kinda like Marshal Brayazi looks like Her. Kaptin Haldin was standing beside them with red-and-golden power coming out of his mouth.”
“You mean into,” Brax interrupted.
“No, I mean out of,” Spar growled in reply.
“Last time you said into.”
“Last time was different.”
“How?”
“Because it was!”
The anger was rising in Spar’s voice again, and Brax made a quick gesture of surrender. “Fine, out of. So what’s the problem?”
The younger boy looked searchingly into Brax’s eyes for a moment as if trying to decide how much to tell him, then turned abruptly to stare out at the waves again.
“Do you remember how we used to sit on the rooftops in the morning and talk about what was going to happen during the day?” he asked suddenly.
Brax nodded cautiously.
“And how we never told Cindar? He never knew what I saw or how much? We’d just sort out whatever we had to by ourselves?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I don’t want anyone else knowing about this either. It’s for you and me to sort out. Only. All right?”
“All right.”
Spar took a deep breath. “I had a dream last night. I saw a new picture in the book of it happening again, to you, this Havo’s Dance.”
“What, Estavia and Marshal Brayazi sucking a bunch of red-and-golden power out my mouth?” Brax asked with a confused frown.
“Not exactly. Not Marshal Brayazi, anyway.”
“So who, exactly, anyway?”
“I’m not sure. The dream was kinda hazy,” Spar replied in a defensive tone. “But Estavia was involved somehow.”
Brax gave him an even look. “And?” he asked simply.
“And you need to make your oaths to Her before then or you won’t survive it. I saw that, too.”
Taken aback by an answer he wasn’t expecting, Brax poked at the inside of his cheek with his tongue for a moment, before turning his head to regard the younger boy out of the corner of one eye. “If She wants my death, I won’t deny it to Her, Spar,” he said seriously. “I can’t.”
Spar showed his teeth at him. “I’m not asking you to.”
“But I’m not sixteen.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“What if they won’t let me make my oaths yet?”
“Elif will let you. She’ll know it’s important.”
“How?”
“Because she’s a seer, stupid! She’ll have seen most of this herself by now!”
“Why won’t she see it all?”
“Because the Gods have hidden most of it. And don’t ask me why, it doesn’t matter.”
“But how come you can see it?”
“ ‘Cause They can’t see me.”
“Why?”
“That doesn’t matter either.” When Brax continued to look doubtful, Spar tugged a hand through his hair in frustration. “Look, this was what you wanted wasn’t it?” he demanded. “What you’ve been after ever since we arrived?”
“Well, yeah.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
Brax looked away. “You know I can’t read,” he said finally.
“I know you won’t read,” the younger boy snarled back at him.
“Whatever. They won’t consecrate me as a ghazi-delinkos without it.”
“Well, you should have thought of that before now.”
“I figured I’d have more time.”
“You don’t.”
“So what do I do?”
“Suffer.”
“Not funny.”
“Not meant to be.”
They locked eyes for a moment, then Brax gave a rueful nod. “Fair enough. All right, so beyond that, what do I do?” When Spar shrugged, he raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re the one who said I had to listen to you, so I’m listening. What do I do?”
Spar glared at him, but in the face of Brax’s seeming compliance his expression grew more thoughtful than angry. “Cindar once told me that the difference between sworn and unsworn delon is that the oaths of their abayon cover them until they’re sixteen.”
“Doesn’t sound like him,” Brax noted mildly.
“Yeah, well, actually he said that the sworn shackle their delon to a life of groveling servitude.”
“Now that does sound like him.”
“Either way, we were unsworn because Cindar was unsworn.”
“So Bayard’s delon are sworn because he and Maydir are sworn?”
“Basically.”
“But aren’t we sworn men? Because Kernel and Yasher are.”
“Yes. But it won’t be enough. So what, exactly, are these big oaths the Warriors of Estavia are supposed to make?”
“You mean you don’t know?” Brax replied, unable to resist the prod.
Spar ignored the tone. “No,” he said.
“They’re called First Oaths. Everyone who swears to a God makes them at sixteen. They’re supposed to ... I dunno, symbolize being an adult; you know, making adult choices about your life and what you’re gonna do with it. The followers of Estavia swear their lives, their service, and their training to Her. Inside.” He pressed his hand to his chest. “Private-like, just to Her, even though they’re standing with other people when they do it. There’s more ... bits of, you know, ceremony, to it than that, but that’s essentially it.”
“But haven’t you done that already?”
“Didn’t you tell me Tanay said it didn’t count until you were sixteen?”
“Yeah, but she’s not a warrior.”
“Well, apparently, she’s right. The temple, all temples think you don’t know your own mind until you’re sixteen—even if you do know it—and so they think any oaths you swear before then don’t really take.”
“What does Estavia think?”
Brax gave a passable imitation of Spar’s characteristic snort. “She knows I’m Hers.”
“And what do you think?”
Brax laid his hand on his chest again, smiling as he felt the God’s responding tingle. “The same.” Glancing at the younger boy, he nodded in understanding as he’d done each day they’d sat on the Western Trisect dockside roofs and planned their day. “All right, so I don’t make ghazi-delinkos this year,” he said. “Some delinkon don’t right away either, so there’s no real reason I ought to, except for your dream. Will the rest of the oaths be enough?”
“You better hope they are,” the younger boy snarled back, but when Brax continued to stare at him, he just shrugged. “Probably,” he allowed.
“So how do we get me sworn without telling anyone why I need to be?”
“
I’ll handle that part.”
Later that night, Spar had awakened him with a scream of terror that had roused half the Cyan Company dormitory and sent Jaq into a frenzy of frightened barking. Their abayon had come pounding into the room, and while Kemal’d half wrestled the dog from the pallet, Yashar’d caught up the now hysterical boy in his arms. All he could make out from the stream of incoherent crying and babbling was that Spar’d had a terrible nightmare. Rocking him back and forth, he’d murmured as many comforting words and snatches of lullabies as he could think of into the boy’s sweat-dampened hair, until finally, spent and exhausted, Spar had fallen asleep in his arms.
It happened again an hour later.
The next morning he could remember nothing more than the frightening image of Brax’s death.
Kemal and Yashar took him to see Elif at once and, after a long day of careful probing she’d managed to discover the core of his nightmare: Brax, standing alone on Havo’s Dance, facing a death that his immature oaths to Estavia could not prevent.
From Elif they went to Kaptin Julide, Kaptin Liel, Marshal Brayazi, and finally to the command council. After an hour’s deliberation it was agreed. Brax would make his First Oaths on Usara’s Last Day, thirteen days before he turned sixteen.
No one but Brax had seen the look of triumphant disdain that had flashed in the younger boy’s eyes for one brief instant, and Brax had no time to do anything about it. Usara’s Last Day was in eight days. The council hoped that would give him enough time to master enough of his letters to be consecrated as ghazi-delinkos.
It hadn’t been. Warrior-delinkos would have to be enough.
Leaving yet another frustratingly failed lesson with Ihsan this morning, he’d allowed Spar to draw him back to the eastern battlements, knowing that a hailstorm would not deter the younger boy from whatever high, lonely place he was currently obsessed with. At the wall, Spar had held out one hand.
“Here. This will help.” Opening his hand, he offered Brax a small, brown bead like the one in his hair, strung on a finely-braided leather cord. “Tanay gave me three on Oristo’s Last Day. The Petchan hill fighters wear them as protections against the spirits,” he explained in response to Brax’s confused expression.
