The Silver Lake (16 page)

His latent prophetic gifts merged with the spirit’s life force, creating a powerful, new future that shone in his mind like a beacon. It grew until it encompassed all the world, then shattered into a kaleidoscope of brilliant white lights, each with its own tiny shred of emerging consciousness. Images flew past his eyes: a vast legion of riders thundering across the plains, a tall tower on the sea perched above a stone cell that echoed with pain and despair, and a face both familiar and unknown that filled him with a conflicting sense of hatred and desire, all directed by an emerging consciousness that hammered at his own sense of self.

Sucking it into his body, Graize renewed his attack on the spirits with a savage concentration he’d never known before. As the night wore on, they fought, both now equally matched in strength and fury, until the eastern sky grew pale with the rising sun. The spirits made one last assault, then flung him aside and melted into the dawn as Graize fell heavily to the ground, cold and still, but alive.

At Incasa-Sarayi, the figures became three frightened and bloodied children, and in her meditation chamber, Freyiz blinked as the lamplight finally guttered out. The future streams had dug themselves a more stabilized channel to flow through for now with Incasa’s choice, but the passageway was still uncertain. One false move and that destabilizing tower would rise up again and they would silt up into chaos once more. They must be carefully watched and she was too old to maintain that kind of vigil for long, especially so far from the God’s source of power. Rising with a groan, she crossed to the southernmost window, frowning as the rising sun turned the distant power of Gol-Beyaz to rippling silvery orange and yellow satin in her prophetic gaze. It had been years since she’d been back to her childhood village of Adasi-Koy on the eastern shore, but only there, where the lake cupped about the jut of land on three sides, could she hope to call up enough strength to hold the futures intact against the tower’s influence.

“Gods,” she snorted inwardly, ignoring Incasa’s responding caress as a twinge of pain feathered up her right knee.
“Can’t ever leave well enough alone. Or let an old woman retire in peace, for that matter.”

Both Incasa and Estavia had interfered with Havo’s Dance this night, she noted, choosing their champions in blood and in power—whether for good or ill, it was too early to tell—but one thing was certain, when one God stepped into the territory of another, the repercussions always touched the lives of their worshipers. With a resentful grumble, she crossed to her delinkos slumbering in the corner, and shook the bi-gender fifteen-year-old awake. It was time to choose a new First Oracle and then journey to Gol-Beyaz to try and save the future from two boys who slept, exhausted, beneath a decrepit fishing vessel and another who lay near death on the rocky plains of the Berbat-Dunya, surrounded by a swarm of shining, silvery lights that might lead them all to either creation or destruction.

As Freyiz hobbled painfully toward the small bedchamber off her meditation room, the image of the tower rose up in her mind again, suddenly strengthened by a new figure whose power shone like a golden beacon in the night, but she thrust it aside. One thing at a time, she snorted to herself, first sleep, then travel, then battle with towers, golden figures, or whatever else might rise up against her.

“I am
far
too old for this nonsense, you know,” she growled in the direction of the small white marble statue of Incasa, standing in its wall niche by the door.

The statue made no reply, and Freyiz acknowledged the wisdom of its silence with a sharp nod of her head; she was in no mood for lip from anyone, least of all a God that should know better. As she accepted the arm of her delinkos, the image of the golden figure winked into being once more. She narrowed her eyes.

“I said, from
anyone,”
she warned. With a burst of musical light, it disappeared again.

Far to the south on the island of Amatus, a golden-haired young woman smiled in her sleep. Lying in an open-air pavilion bedecked with early spring flowers and hung with fine curtains of green and yellow silk, she breathed in the warm, salty air of the Deniz-Hadi Sea, allowing it to color her dreams with prophecy.

She opened her eyes.

The rising sun shone down on the still turquoise waters of the southern sea like a balm. Rising, she stepped lightly across the beach, enjoying the feel of the early morning breeze rippling through her shift and the cool sand spraying across her feet. They spoke to her of so many subtle variations in the future that she felt almost giddy with possibility, but when the water lapped against her toes with the cool reminder that the physical world was as important as the metaphysical, she brought herself back to the present.

Taking one careful step backward, she glanced over at the old man who stood a respectful distance away, a spear cradled easily in the crook of his arm.

“It was a long night for you, Hares,” she noted, a smile lighting up her unusually black eyes.

“It was, Panos,” he agreed, carefully avoiding her gaze—her mental powers were considerable even at so young an age. “But it was also a quiet and peaceful night. I drew maps in my mind while I waited for the dawn.”

She nodded, watching as the lines and colors of his artistry played across her mind like so many harp strings.

“So, you don’t resent accompanying me, then?”

“When the Oracle of Amatus asked for you personally, how could you feel anything but honored?”

“Quite easily,” she laughed. “Drawing imaginary maps on a beach can’t be half so pleasant as drawing real maps in the royal gardens of Skiros.”

He gave an eloquent shrug. “Perhaps not, but when the child of your oldest and dearest friend asks that you guard her sleep while she journeys in the realm of prophecy, you’re only too pleased to do so. However, I am tired,” he admitted. “It’s been a long time since I carried anything bigger than an ink brush in offense or defense. Military service is for the young.”

“We’ll take in a large breakfast very soon and then you can return me to my mother and sleep the day away in her best guest suite,” she promised.

“You got your answer, then?”

“Most of it.” Crouching down, Panos watched a tiny turtle make its struggling way toward the water, trailing its past and its present along behind it in a series of sparkling, musical notes that seemed to bounce off her skin. The notes became drops of water breaking across a broken marble surface and she frowned thoughtfully. “Have you ever drawn a map of Gol-Beyaz?” she asked.

“I have.”

“Have you ever been there?”

“When I was young. I traveled with King Pyrros to the mighty city of Anavatan and beyond.”

“It’s said they have no king,” she observed.

“That’s true. They follow the directives of their Gods only.”

“But someone must lead them?”

He shrugged. “Priests, for the most part.”

“I should think that the lack of a centralized authority would be a weakness.”

“They have a very great army.”

“They’d have to.” Making a swift decision, she lifted the turtle, and, ignoring its indignant attempts to bite her, carried it the last few paces to the water.

Her mother would not have approved, she mused. She would have admonished her in words that fell like purple grapes on the ground, that creatures, like people, must make their own way in this world, but Panos saw no reason to refuse aid when doing so gave her such a pleasant tactile experience. The turtle’s belly had been smooth and soft and sounded like cork trees whispering in the night. She never would have expected that. She watched as it disappeared into the waves with a splash of color and music, then stood.

“I will travel to Anavatan and beyond myself this season,” she stated. “And you will come with me.”

“Oh?”

His lack of enthusiasm pattered against her thoughts like tiny footsteps and she laughed.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be able to bring your inks and parchments with you.” Her expression grew serious. “Something’s happening in the midst of Gol-Beyaz, Hares, and the king will want an oracle nearby to determine whether it will be advantageous for the south, and the oracle will need a friend to help draw its deciphering.

“Besides,” she added, pressing her hands to her cheeks, which had grown suddenly warm and scented like flowers, “there’s a tall stone tower in my dreams that keeps calling to me. I think I should like to see what it wants.”

Hares gave her a look of amusement and alarm equally mixed. “It probably wants what all towers want,” he said in a warning tone of voice. “Be careful you don’t give it more than you want.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” she scoffed. “I’m not talking about sex. Sex is a pleasant ... tactile diversion, nothing more. I’m talking about power, the kind that plays deep and sinuous music in my head.”

“Mm-hm. It’s obvious why I’m going now. Once your mother finds out about this, she’ll likely send me herself.” He glanced up at the great mansion perched on the hill above them. “And on that note, perhaps we should return to her.”

“If you like.” Following him toward a small barge tied up beside the beach, she smiled secretly to herself. Power was as pleasantly diverting as sex, the more so if they were experienced together, and it was very likely they would be, whatever the combative, old woman in her dreams might be planning. Together, the tower and the Oracle would prevail. She didn’t need a dream to tell her that.

HAVO’S SECOND MORNING was as peaceful as Havo’s Second Night had been violent. Drove’s corpse lay where it had been flung, one desiccated hand reaching out, the other clutching at his throat. Brax stared down at him for a long time, then swiftly searched through what was left of his clothing, finding five copper aspers in the remains of a shredded leather purse. Nothing else was salvageable. He turned away.

He and Spar had crept out from beneath the fishing boat as soon as dawn had brought an end to the storm. Both had taken a dozen deep scratches to the back and neck and the wounds across Brax’s arm and face felt numb and tight.

“But at least they’re not infected,” he muttered.

Yet.

Beneath the now constant buzz of Estavia’s lien he could feel the heat tickling at the edges of his injuries. Apparently, instant healing was not part of the Battle God’s bag of tricks.

The buzz grew stronger, and he acknowledged the point with an exaggerated shrug. She’d provided the means to buy healing, and that was great, but ... He jiggled the money in his hand pointedly. Five aspers would buy them the necessary salve to doctor their injuries or feed them, but not both.

The buzz became an impatient itch and suddenly something glinted just under the corpse’s right arm. Crouching, Brax pulled up Drove’s knife. It was heavier than his, and better made, with a smooth wooden handle and a carved jewel worked into the top. Worth a couple dozen aspers at least. He should have remembered it. With a nod, he tucked it through his belt.

“Thanks.”

The responding caress made him flush. It was going to take a while to remember that now when he talked about the Gods, one of them would be talking back—and loudly, too. Still—he glanced down at the knife with a grin—if he’d known that worshiping a God was going to be this profitable, he’d have joined him and Spar up a long time ago no matter what Cindar had wanted.

His smile faded as he glanced over at the younger boy.

Spar had taken one brief look at Drove—the second corpse he’d seen in as many days—then turned away with a shudder. Now he stood, staring out at the cold waters of the Halic-Salmanak, thin shoulders hunched under what was left of his jacket, waiting, as always, for the older boy to decide on their next move, for good fortune or bad.