The Silver Lake (19 page)

His eyes wide and fearful, Spar nodded reluctantly.

“All right. C‘mon, then. Like Cindar taught us, yeah? Confident and like we’re meant to be here, ’cause we are.”

They started walking. Rain began to fall all around them and Brax fought the urge to run. One wrong move and Spar would bolt; he could feel it. As they came abreast of the sentries, he felt Estavia pushing him forward and used the feeling to square his shoulders. They
were
meant to be there.
She
had sent them. Bunching his fists into the back of Spar’s jacket, he shoved him past. Through his new bond with the Battle God, he felt Her touch the minds of the sentries, commanding passage, but the skin between his shoulder blades still crawled with the knowledge that they could’ve killed them both in a heartbeat. Breathing carefully through his mouth, he propelled Spar under the bristling teeth of the raised portcullis and into the dark entrance tunnel beyond.

The patch of dim light at the end seemed a hundred miles away.

When they finally stepped out into a shadowy, rain-slicked courtyard, bigger than any they’d ever seen, Spar sagged and would have fallen if Brax hadn’t caught him by the arm.

“Almost there.”

Behind them, the gate closed with a heavy boom and Spar jumped. Brax forced himself to laugh.

“That was close, huh?” he asked lightly. “Well, we’re through the first part, anyway. Which way do we go now, do you think?” He glanced around at the huge empty courtyard. High-walled buildings, their shuttered windows dark save for the occasional flicker of lamplight through the slats, surrounded them on all sides, shielded by tall, dark trees and wrapped about by four long, pillared galleries. Something he couldn’t name drew his gaze to the far southern comer, but as he took a step in that direction, the God’s presence impelled him to the east, past the smell of cooking. He shook his head at Spar’s imploring glance.

“We can’t go to the kitchens just yet,” he explained, feeling the truth of his words as a God-wrought image of warmth and safety grew in his head. “We’ll eat soon, I promise.”
Right? Eat really soon?
he asked silently. “But right now we’ve got to get to where we’re going and that’s that big, blocky tower up ahead. Someone’s going to meet us there.”

Spar didn’t bother to glance past Brax’s pointing finger. His face pinched and hungry, he just hunkered down inside his new jacket, following the older boy as he started along the shadowy gallery and shivering as lightning lit up the sky. They reached a small wooden door at the far end just as a slight fall of hail began to patter against the courtyard. Pushing at the door experimentally, Brax shot the other boy a confident smile as it creaked open.

“See, soon we’ll be safe inside and Havo’s Dance can howl for us all it wants to. C‘mon.” He slipped through the door and, after only a heartbeat’s hesitation, Spar followed.

They found themselves in a long dark corridor, high latticed windows throwing just enough light to see the length of marble wall to the left and rows of closed doors to the right. It was empty of people, just like the courtyard.

“Everyone must be at prayers or something,” Brax noted. “This way.”

Their bare feet slapping against the floor, they followed the corridor along until it opened into a wide central atrium, flanked by two sets of heavy, brass double doors. Brax indicated the left ones with his chin.

“They lead back outside, I’d guess,” he said quietly, the large, echoing space making him want to whisper.

Spar jerked his own chin at the opposite corridor with a questioning expression and the older boy shook his head.

“No. She wants us to go this way.”

He made for the right-hand doors. Easing one open a crack, he gaped as a shaft of lamplight spilled into the atrium.

“Look at this.”

Beyond the door, they saw a huge room, lit by a number of hanging lamps, their fine chains disappearing toward the dark, unseen ceiling above. Rows of weapons and strange-looking pieces of armor lined the walls beside huge round plates of beaten silver and gold. Half a dozen carved marble daises sat in the center of the room, one under each lamp. As they approached, the gleam of precious metals and fine gems sparkled invitingly at them.

“I told you so,” Brax mouthed, running his fingers along the smooth, golden handle of what looked like—but probably wasn‘t—a beautifully wrought oyster shucking knife on the central dais.

Nearby, Spar nodded in mute amazement, going up on his toes to peer at a jewel-encrusted book set on a silver base. His brows drew down.

“Yeah,” Brax agreed. “Ugly, isn’t it?” He turned a wide grin on the other boy. “But even the smallest of those little rocks’d keep us for a month. They sure are a trusting lot here.” He glanced over at an equally jewel-encrusted sword lying across a black-and-gold-damask cloth on the next dais. It tingled under his fingertips and he rubbed them absently against his tunic. “I guess they can afford to be, though,” he finished. “I mean, who’d steal from the Battle God’s temple?”

“The same thieves who’d steal from the Healer God’s temple,”
his thoughts supplied.

The tingle in the back of his mind grew more intense.

“We wouldn‘t,” he thought back absently, then laughed. “Especially not tonight; we’d never get away during Havo’s Dance, would we? And besides, we didn’t steal from the Healer
God’s
temple; we stole in front of
the Healer God’s temple. There’s a
big
difference.”

A thread of amusement at this practical irreverence trickled through his mind before Her presence directed his gaze toward a small, open door in the far wall. Warm lamplight spilled across the floor and he could smell plants and incense. And food. Spar was already heading that way and Brax hurried after him. If there was anyone inside, they were probably the ones who were supposed to meet them, but it didn’t hurt to be cautious. Catching the younger boy by the jacket, he jerked him behind him before peering through the door. The room was empty of people. Surprised, Brax allowed Spar to duck under his arm. He was sure they were supposed to meet someone before now. Shaking his head, he followed Spar inside.

To the south, in the temple’s plant-filled infirmary atrium, Yashar leaned against the gold-tiled central pillar and frowned at Kemal. His arkados had been pacing the length of the room like a caged tiger, Jaq tight on his heels, for the better part of an hour and the constant slap of sandals and tick of toenails on the marble floor was starting to annoy him.

“Will you please stop doing that and sit down?” he asked bluntly. “Samlin says you’re supposed to rest.”

Taking him by the shoulders, he forced the other man onto a long, velvet divan. “Jaq, sit on his feet. Good dog.

“Now, do you want to be discharged in time for supper or do you want to take broth and unsweetened yogurt for yet another meal?” he growled at him.

Kemal shot the older man a sour expression, but leaned back pointedly.

“Thank you.”

Kemal didn’t bother to respond.

He’d awakened remarkably fit and energized after a long, drugged night’s sleep, and although the cuts and scratches he’d taken during the ritual felt tight and itchy, he himself felt fine. He’d been ready to return to duty at once, but Samlin, the temple’s chief physician of Usara, had refused to allow it. He’d swept in early that morning, fussed over the salve and bandages his delinkon had applied, promised to return and discharge Kemal that afternoon, then vanished. As the sun had made its slow journey westward, there’d been no sign of him.

“Typical healer,” he muttered irritably.

“Practice patience.”

“You
practice it.”

“I
am
practicing it.”

Kemal glared at Yashar, but dropped the subject. “You’d think She might at least push the old fart along a little,” he grumbled after a moment.

His arkados just shrugged. “Physicians serve Usara, God of Healing,” he answered piously, bringing his clasped hands up to rest against the wall behind his head. “So that those who serve Estavia, God of Battles, will return to those battles when they’re actually ready and not when they think they’re ready.”

“I was actually ready nine hours ago.”

“As I said.”

With a gesture of frustration, Kemal made to rise, then stopped as Yashar laid his arm across his chest.

“Be calm.”

“I can’t. I need to move. I need to go,” he added.

“You just went.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He banged the back of his head lightly against the mosaic-tiled wall until Yashar caught him by the ear.

“Stop that.”

Kemal grimaced at him. “Something’s happening, Yash,” he insisted. “And I need to be there. I can feel it.”

“What?”

“I don’t know.”

“Ask the God.”

“I did. She won’t answer me. She hasn’t answered me all day.”

“She’s probably angry at you for disobeying Samlin’s orders to stay in bed this morning.”

Kemal shrugged. “Point,” he allowed.

“Then you need to meditate and ask Her forgiveness for believing that you know more about healing than a healer. Start now.”

“Fine, you’re probably right, but the least you could do is go and see if he’s coming.”

“No, the least I could do is catch up on some sleep right here, and the most I could do is go and eat without you. I swear, Kem, you’re the worst patient in the temple. Face the truth, you can’t leave until Samlin returns and he’ll return in his own good time, so follow your very sensible orders,
Ghazi.
Get some rest, and shut up.”

Kemal subsided, muttering. It wasn’t a case of following orders, sensible or otherwise, he thought resentfully. A very real sense of urgency had grown as the long, boring day had progressed; he had to do something, he had to be somewhere. Letting out an explosive breath, he began to bang the back of his head against the wall again.

Yashar sighed. “Are you meditating on the God’s forgiveness?” he asked pointedly.

“No. She’ll just have to punish me.”

“Well, it’s too late now. Here comes Samlin.”

“About time.”

Both warriors stood as the chief physician appeared in the doorway, flanked by half a dozen assistants. Yashar nudged Kemal in the side.

“Why don’t you go tell him that?”

Kemal shot the other man a withering glance. “Why don’t you go wait for me in the conservatory?”

“Why don’t I do that.” Leaning down, Yashar gave him a light kiss on the mouth. “Be respectful and obedient, Kem. I won’t take supper with you here if you annoy him into making you stay. I don’t deserve broth and unsweetened yogurt even if you do.”

“Just go.”

With a grin, Yashar ambled from the room and, as lightning flashed beyond the shuttered windows, Kemal turned to face Samlin with a strained expression. It was nearly dusk, nearly the Third Night of Havo’s Dance, and nearly too late, he could feel it. Something was happening; he needed to be there, he didn’t know why or even where, but he did know that it wasn’t happening in the infirmary.