by Fiona Patton
“And I thought cats were the only fickle pets. You’ll have to get a new one, old friend.”
“I just might.” Kemal glanced about as he took his place. “Where is everyone? I’d have thought Assembly would be half over by now.”
“No such luck. We’ll take a drenching before the day is over, mark my words.” The musician leaned back, large hands clasped behind his head. “Usara’s temple sent a very old retired potion mixer who’s been in the loo since I arrived because Jemil and the rest are likely still hard at work ministering to the poor at this time of day, First Cultivar Bey Adrian is taking a drink in the upper gallery with a dozen followers—discussing last-minute party arrangements I’d imagine—and won’t be coming down until we actually begin, Incasa’s Bey is always fashionably last, as you know, and Neclan ..”he paused dramatically, “has been delayed, but she’s on her way.”
“Bey Neclan, late for Assembly?” Kemal grinned. “What is the world coming to?”
“An end, no doubt. Ah!” Aurad sat up straight in gleeful anticipation as a figure entered the chamber, but the sight of Proxy-Bey Niami of Incasa-Sarayi gave him pause. “Huh,” he said as she accepted a cup of tea from the server before taking Incasa’s traditional place at the head of the table. “Well, that never would have happened in Freyiz’s day.”
Kemal said nothing, but the sight of the junior seer did not surprise him. It seemed that the God of Prophecy’s First Oracle didn’t want to answer questions any more than Marshal Brayazi did. That didn’t bode well for the day.
Once Assembly finally began the questions started at once. Already in a foul temper, Bey Neclan fixed Incasa’s young representative with a cold stare.
“It’s been one year since Sayin Freyiz brought us word of a new power born on Havo’s Dance,” she said bluntly. “Since that time our respective temples have followed the direction of our Gods and the suggestion,” she said with a barely disguised sneer, “made by Incasa’s temple that we prepare and that we wait. Well, we have prepared and we have waited, and now Oristo-Sarayi would like to know just what we have prepared and waited for. What is this child of power and potential? Is it a danger to us? Are the spirits of the wild lands in league with it and, if so, are they now a true danger as well? Quite bluntly: Is Anavatan safe, Seer?”
Niami gave the head of the Hearth God’s temple a misty-eyed smile.
“My superiors have charged me to say this in answer, Sayin,” she began respectfully. “The child of the prophecy is no threat to the City of the Gods.”
She fell silent and after a moment, Neclan narrowed her eyes. “And?” she demanded.
“And that is all, Sayin,” Niami answered almost apologetically. “There’s nothing to fear, not on this Havo’s Dance, nor on any other.”
“Well, that’s lovely, I’m so relieved,” Aurad interjected, leaning his elbows on the table. “But it doesn’t answer the rest of the question. What is it, this child of yours? You’ve had a year to snoop about the creeks or trickles or whatever you call them; you must have discovered something: hair color, eye color, pets, favorite foods, its abayon, maybe.”
“Its present seeming is spiritlike, Sayin. What Its true being may become is still shrouded in the mists of time,” Niami answered, ignoring the musician’s suspicious tone with tactful élan.
“How very convenient,” Neclan observed, her own voice dripping with sarcasm.
“But, Sayin,” Niami said, opening her hands in a helpless gesture. “The temples are prepared, yes? And the city streets are swept of the unsworn?”
“Swept?”
Incasa’s representative just shrugged. “Any danger that may arise from the prophecy or from the lowly spirits of the wild lands can’t harm the sworn and Oristo, Usara, and Ystazia-Sarayi have all been aggressively recruiting among the unsworn all year, have they not?”
“Oristo-Sarayi is prepared for Havo’s Dance,” Neclan said, refusing to rise to the somewhat pointed accusation. “Our halls are full, as always, with those seeking refuge from the weather.”
“As are ours,” Aurad answered. “And,” he fixed the God of Prophecy’s proxy-bey with an uncharacteristi cally stem expression. “You may tell your superiors at Incasa-Sarayi that Ystazia-Sarayi will be prepared to Invoke our own God should anything untoward occur during the next three nights, regardless of the state of the sworn or the unsworn.”
“As is Oristo-Sarayi,” Neclan agreed coldly. She cast an expectant glance toward Usara’s representative and, after a brief moment of confusion, the old man nodded.
Niami cocked her head to one side. “If the temples of Hearth, Arts, and Healing feel it’s necessary, then Prophecy has no objection to such prudent provisions, of course,” she said. “It is after all, not the time of our God’s accession. But I shouldn’t wonder if Havo’s temple mightn’t have something to say about it, however.”
All eyes now turned to the tall, bi-gender First Cultivar who was sitting, bare feet crossed at the ankles, staring out the high west window at the sky, and sipping at a crystal glass of raki with seeming disinterest. Setting the glass to one side, Bey Adrian just tucked a lock of disheveled black hair behind one ear before giving an eloquent shrug in reply.
“Havo isn’t interested in prophecies, old or new. Change is necessary for growth. If the other temples want to place their people on alert, that’s their business; we’ll be doing what we always do, celebrating. But,” Adrian raised one hand to forestall an indignant remark from Bey Neclan. “Havo will be out in force tearing up the city for the next three nights. Any spirits or prophetic children that get in the way will likely get shredded. Or eaten. Spring change belongs to our God and our God gets very hungry in spring.”
With a smile, Niami now returned her attention to Bey Neclan. “And so the city is prepared, Sayin,” she said pleasantly.
Oristo’s bey favored her with a haughty look down the length of her nose. “So it would seem,” she answered frostily.
“Then, perhaps, we might move on to other business. That is unless Estavia’s temple has something else to add regarding Anavatan’s security,” Niami added with exaggerated politeness.
Kemal cast the young seer a jaundiced look as the Assembly, and most particularly the three Trisect representatives, now turned their attention his way.
“Estavia’s temple is on alert,” he said truthfully, “standing ready to send strength to our God should She need to do battle with the spirits of the wild lands or any other being that threatens the safety of our city. As we were last year and every year before that since Kaptin Haldin’s time,” he added.
“Do you anticipate any such attack, Sayin?” the Western Trisect representative asked anxiously.
Kemal gave a gesture of studied indifference. “We anticipate an attempt,” he said, stressing the final word. “But,” he shot a grin in the direction of Bey Adrian, “with Havo and Estavia’s appetites being what they are, we don’t anticipate an attempt coming to anything more than a midnight snack. Do you?”
The representative gave a relieved laugh. “No, Sayin.”
“Good.”
The Assembly broke up quickly after that. Niami left at once as did the three Trisect representatives. After huddling together for a moment, Aurad and Neclan followed, supporting Usara’s proxy-bey by one elbow each. Bey Adrian gave Kemal a jaunty salute, then headed off as well, the dozen junior priests in tow, their arms already laden with last-minute supplies. Standing a moment, staring down at the wide, mahogany table, Kemal swallowed the dregs of his cold tea, then handed the cup to the server and took his own leave, feeling just as unsettled as when he’d arrived. As he made his way through the still-bustling marketplace, the rising wind sent a splash of rain across his cheek and, with an involuntary glance at the darkening sky, he quickened his pace.
Across the courtyard, Bey Neclan watched him go with a thoughtful frown on her thin face, before making for the tree-lined avenue that led to Oristo-Sarayi.
The temple was bustl
ing with barely controlled chaos when she arrived. Handing her damp cloak to a junior priest, she strode down the wide, marble entrance hall, taking note of the many preparations already in full swing. Priests and servers rushed here and there, their arms laden with food and linens, all driven by the loud, booming voice of Chamberlain Kadar. An untrained observer might believe they’d never be ready for the glut of people who were already beginning to crowd into the public rooms, but Oristo’s temple had opened its doors to the needs of Anavatan’s citizens every Havo’s Dance since the founding of the city itself. They’d be ready.
Pausing before the ten-foot-high ruddy-brown statue of Oristo which dominated the entrance, N into its polished mahogany eyes. There was feeling in the temple this year, an air of unc sion that made her want to snap at everyone The God was unsettled and that put everyo
Behind her, the Head Launderer storm main dining room, his face a dangerous bur
“If you yell at me one more time, Kadar, y in the northern strait with a bag over you shouted. ”Creases, my arse,“ he snarled as toward the lower level staircase.
Neclan raised an eyebrow at the statue.
Everyone.
Her delinkos met her at the door to her pri
“Chamberlain Tanay’s waiting in the c Sayin,” he said respectfully. “You were to m sembly?”
“Right.” Neclan huffed a breath of air nose in annoyance. The late start at the Cit her entire schedule back by at least a half a God alone knew how she was going to ma fore dusk.
“Shall I bring tea or will you take an e Sayin?” he continued.
“You will bring a large carafe of raki,” she “And three glasses.”
“Three, Sayin?”
“Yes, I imagine Kadar will want to see m my business with Tanay is complete.”
He chuckled at the resigned note of wea voice.
“Yes, Sayin.”
Tanay was deep in discussion with the Chief Gardener over the state of the temple ferns when Neclan entered the large glass conservatory. Noting the sour expression on her superior’s face, one comer of her mouth quirked upward as she disentangled herself from the long, trailing fronds.
“I take it things didn’t go well at Assembly?” she asked, as a server bustled in with the raki and a tray of confectionaries.
“Things went as they generally go at Assembly,” Neclan sniffed. “With dissembling and political nonsense.” Seating herself on a low divan, she rubbed irritably at her fingers, before stretching them toward the lit mangel in the center of the room.
“Here, let me.” Tanay came forward to take the older woman’s hands in hers. Rubbing them gently, she examined the red, swollen knuckles with a frown. “They look sore today,” she noted.
“Don’t fuss. It’s just the damp, it makes them ache.”
“Are you using the cream that Rakeed brought for you?”
“Yes, Abia.”
“Good.” Taking her own place beside her, Tanay poured them each a glass of raki. The two women sat in companionable silence for a moment until the deep lines about Neclan’s eyes and mouth relaxed a little.
“Oristo is disturbed about Havo’s Dance this year,” Neclan said at last.
“Freyiz’s prophecy?”
“No doubt. It’s become clear over the months that your two charges are involved, and the Hearth God doesn’t like it when delon are put in danger by adult concerns.”
“The Hearth God’s not the only one,” Tanay agreed darkly.
“Brayazi politely declined my offer of a place for them here until after Havo’s Dance,” Neclan continued. “So we’ll have to extend the God’s protection to them in their absence. You gave the young one, Spar, the beads you dreamed of?”
Tanay nodded. “I don’t know how much protection they’ll be able to convey, but yes, he has one, Brax the other.”
“Good. Well, then, that’s all we can do.” Glancing up, she spotted Kadar standing by the conservatory door arguing with the Temple Chef. “And now...” she said, the lines returning to her face, “I have battles of my own to mediate and you should get back before the rain begins in earnest.”
“Yes, Sayin.” Bowing, Tanay took her leave, shaking an admonishing finger at Kadar as she passed.
Above the city, the sun began its downward trek toward dusk and the First Night of Havo’s Dance behind a mask of heavy storm clouds. In Anavatan’s harbors the ships and fishing boats were already battened down, their cargo safely stowed away, and their crews sequestered in the many inns and taverns along the wharves. In the marketplaces which still teemed with people, Oristo’s abayos-priests fanned out, cajoling and bullying everyone who was still on the streets into heading for an early refuge, offering their already crowded halls to whomever needed them while Ystazia’s people brought every tent, stall, table, and cart set up around their temples and camis that could be moved indoors.
The vast and sweeping public rooms and theaters of Ystazia-Sarayi quickly came to resemble a covered market on a high festival day with jugglers, musicians, dancers, and puppeteers all setting up shop as quickly as the relocated potters, jewelers, scribes, and many who might have gone home chose to spend the night right there. Others made their way to Havo-Sarayi in the hopes of joining in the revelry and cadging a free meal.
At Usara-Sarayi the physicians quietly laid out bandages and counted their remaining medicinals while at Estavia-Sarayi, the Battle God’s warriors honed their weapons, and tucked between the Healer God’s and the Hearth God’s temples, Incasa-Sarayi exuded an air of deep stillness and uninviting solitude, its gates already closed.
Seated on a soft woolen cushion in the center of the God of Prophecy’s most private meditation tower, Freyiz tasted the combination of excitement and anxiety emanating from the five other main temples with a neutral expression as she cast her farseeing prophetic gaze westward across the city, noting the areas of strength and weakness with equal objectivity. When First Oracle Bessic approached, she gestured him forward without turning her head.
“Niami has returned, Sayin,” he said respectfully despite his position. “The city is prepared.”
“And the temple-seers?” “Are waiting for nightfall.”
She nodded. “I’ll rest until then. Call me when everything is in readiness for the High Seeking. You will lead it, of course; I’m here only in a purely advisory position.”
“Yes, Sayin.”
The tinge of disbelief in his voice made her smile.
She felt rather than heard him withdraw a moment later, and took the opportunity to tug at a fold in her cushion which was irritating her left buttock in a very undignified manner. She’d forgotten about the many sacrifices made to appearances at Incasa’s main temple, but it was of little importance. She wouldn’t be here that long. With a sigh, she gave the cushion a final, irritated tug.
When she’d left, she’d felt as old and used up as a candle stub, but the year spent at Adasi-Koy had given her the strength and clarity needed to face the coming trials. It had given Bessic a chance to solidify his position as First Oracle as well, she allowed, which was all to the good. Ineasa-Sarayi needed a strong, single hand at the rudder if it was to weather the coming storms in one piece. She had no intention of undermining his authority; however, she was old enough to realize that intention and actuality were two entirely different streams, which power and appearance had a habit of silting up all too often. She would be glad to return to the more peacefully retired world of Adasi-Koy’s lighter duties and softer cushions when this was all over. Reaching for the glass of salap at her elbow, she allowed her mind to return there ahead of her body.
As it was here, her own small meditation room back home held windows on all four sides, the specially made and very expensive glass panes lightly tinted with color to represent the four directions of prophecy contained within the passage of time: yellow to the east for the dawn and for the past, pink for the north and south and the choices they offered in the clear, high light of the present, and blue t
o the west for the setting sun and its journey into a shadowed and enigmatic future. As a delinkos she had used those colors to hone and focus her gift; now they existed only in her memory and in the variations of warmth the sun cast through them and onto her face and hands. She remembered how the pink and the blue glass had transformed the shining, silvery waters of Gol-Beyaz and how the yellow had covered the slopes of the Degisken-Dag Mountains with a fine golden-wrought mist.
She snorted suddenly. She’d never much liked the look of that. Mountains should be green—clean, healthy green. Of course, to her eyes now the mountains would always be black as would the rest of the physical world. With a sigh, she returned her frosted, prophetic gaze to the west and the blue-and-silver-streaked Citadel below.
After months of careful sifting through a hundred streams, she’d finally sorted out the vision Incasa had sent her a year ago. A child of great potential, still unformed, born under the cover of Havo’s Dance; a child, a God, created by the raw and uncontrolled power of the wild land spirits, solidified by hunger and by bloodshed, and fashioned out of madness, quickened by battle, and ready to be brought into the physical world by Anavatan’s champions or by its enemies; a God for whom creation and destruction were two very real possibilities in equal measure. A God who stood poised on the edge of a dark place no God had any business going. And so, armed with the first and possibly only clear message she’d ever received from the God of Prophecy, she’d returned to His main temple with one simple directive: raise a High Seeking so that Incasa might ensure this child took its place beside the Gods and thus maintained the safety and security of Their people and Their city.
Or perished before It could be used against Them.
“Oristo and Usara’s temples are responsible for the well-being of the city and Estavia’s for its safety.”
Freyiz sniffed as the First Abayos-Priest’s words from a year ago filtered through her mind. Temple politics always muddied the streams. The Healer, Hearth, and Battle Gods might be responsible for such things as the well-being and safety of Anavatan, but Incasa temple-seers were responsible for its future and without that there was no Healing, Hearth, or Battle.
