The Silver Lake (20 page)

“It’s beautiful.”

In Marshal Brayazi’s private audience chamber, Brax held up a clear-cut wine glass, marveling at its design.

“It’s so thin and so perfect. It must have cost a fortune.”

Beside him, Spar shrugged. Stuffing a large piece of breaded zucchini into his mouth, he reached for a nearby bowl of olives.

The two boys had crossed the small, plant-filled room at a run past a glowing mangel, toward three comfortable divans arranged about a low table heaped with food. Oblivious to anything else, Spar had flung himself to his knees before a silver platter of steaming lamb, rice, and vegetables. Brax had made for the crystal carafe of perfectly clear raki. Now, with the remains of their meal strewn about the table, they sat with their backs against the largest divan, polishing off cups of something creamy and sweet they couldn’t identify.

“See, what’d I tell you,” Brax said, stuffing a couple of silk cushions behind them. “Good food and a safe place to spend the night.” He glanced about at the three outside walls. “Still, it’s kind of a strange room,” he mused. “You’d hardly think it would hold up in a storm like Havo’s Dance.”

As if on cue, the wind picked up, rattling the screens. Something flickered past the lamps and Spar’s blue eyes widened. His hand strayed to his knife.

“It’s just the wind through the slats,” Brax told him firmly. “It’s still daylight, and even if it wasn‘t, the spirits can’t get in here, it’s a temple. The danger’s outside, and it’s gonna stay outside, yeah?”

His eyes riveted on the largest of the lamps, Spar nodded uncertainly.

“Good.” Reaching for the carafe again, Brax poured himself another glass of raki as Spar gestured at the door. The older boy shook his head. “No. Like I said we’re meant to be here,
right here.”
Suddenly very tired, he yawned. “After whoever’s supposed to meet us here gets here we can go ... wherever we’re supposed to go, but for now, have some more of this. It’s really good. See,” he added, holding the glass up to show Spar the clarity of the liquid within it. “Not a drop of water to cloudy it up.”

Still staring at the lamp, Spar nodded, holding his glass out so Brax could refill it. The older boy then pulled a heavily embroidered lap blanket off the divan and draped it over them.

“I told you, everything’s gonna be all right now,” he said, emptying his own glass in one swallow. “So get some sleep. She’ll wake us when She wants us.”

Spar nodded again, but continued to stare at the lamp as Brax’s head fell back against the divan. The light cast a weaving pattern across the inner stone wall, reflecting in his eyes like a troupe of fiery dancers, and he frowned as he finished his raki. All his life the images and feelings whispering through his mind’d had very simple meanings: safety or danger. But now everything was new and strange and he had no idea what was dangerous and what wasn’t.

The memory of a thousand misty creatures of hate and need tearing at his mind and body made him shudder, and he pushed it away almost frantically. He would not remember that, he told himself. Brax had said they were safe. He would believe him.

But the memory refused to be banished.

What if it happened again?

The lamplight flickered, sketching the shape of a tall tower across the walls, offering answers, promising safety. All he had to do was reach out to it and he would know ... everything.

He frowned.

And then what?
he demanded in his head.
Nothing’s free. Everyone always wants something back. What do you want?

The shadowy tower made no reply and he snorted cynically. He’d thought so. After carefully setting his glass onto the table, he curled up under the lap blanket beside Brax and, after tucking his head under the other boy’s arm, closed his eyes, deliberately blocking out the sight of the flickering image. He might not be able to tell the difference between danger and safety in this new place,
yet,
but he could still spot a lifter from a thousand yards and he was no mark. Until the tower could give him a proper answer, it could piss off.

“I missed it.”

Cutting swiftly through the crowded infirmary kitchens, Kemal shook his head in frustration. After an absurdly long examination, Samlin had finally discharged him just before nightfall, and he’d practically run from the room. Now, as the God’s presence returned, directing him deeper into the temple proper, he pushed through the south wing door and into the central corridor, Yashar and Jaq at his heels.

“I missed it,” he repeated.

Yashar glanced over at him. “How can you know that, Kem?” he asked. “You’ve never been trained as a seer.”

“I don’t know; I just feel it.”

“Is it something dangerous?”

“Probably.”

“But you don’t know what it is?

“No.”

“And the God won’t say?”

“Again, no.”

“I don’t like that.”

“Neither do I.” Heading for the main wing, Kem gestured. “This way.”

He barely broke stride as they reached the central gatehouse tower, hurrying through the armory toward the marshal’s private audience hall. The lamps were lit inside and the two men exchanged a surprised glance. The room was rarely used in the evening and certainly not during Havo’s Dance. Striding forward, Kemal rocked to a halt in the doorway, catching Jaq by the collar, as he saw who occupied the room.

Two young boys slept propped against Elif’s divan, her best lap blanket pulled up to their chins, the remains of a large meal and an empty carafe spread out on the table before them. As he stepped forward, Yashar shot Kemal a questioning look and his arkados just shook his head. All his instincts were telling him that these were the ones he’d been sent to find, but something wasn’t right.

You mean besides the fact that they’re delon?
his mind asked sarcastically.

The sense of urgency faded as he studied the two boys. The younger had the look of the southern villages, ragged blond hair falling over a thin face, the older looked more like a native Anavatanon with thick black hair, darker skin, and wider cheekbones.

“But ... delon?” he asked in confusion.

Yashar elbowed him in the ribs, interrupting his thoughts. “Look at their faces, Kem.”

Both had a number of nasty-looking red scratches across their cheeks and foreheads, identical to Kemal’s own.

“They must have taken them during last night’s ritual.”

“But how?”

“I don’t know. Jaq, sit,” Kemal hissed as the dog headed for the divan. “Maybe they just got caught in the crossfire.”

“I hope that’s not true, I’d hate to think we caused that.”

“So would I, but it would explain why they’re here, for reparations.”

“That or they were involved somehow. Didn’t you tell me that Incasa sent Bey Freyiz a vision of a child?”

“Yes, but one child, not two.”

“Still, it’s a pretty obvious coincidence. We should inform the marshal.”

“You go. I’ll wait here in case they wake up. No, Jaq, sit.” Kemal stuck his foot in front of the dog, who reluctantly dropped his hindquarters.

“What about supper?”

“Bring me back something stuffed in a pita.”

Yashar grinned at him. “Are you sure you can handle these two alone? After all, you know how dangerous child inebriates can be, especially prophetic child inebriates.”

“Just go.”

As his arkados left the room, Kemal crouched down beside Jaq. The God’s presence within him felt both fiercely possessive and remotely disinterested in the two delon, which confused him even further. Either they were here by Her command or they weren’t.

Jaq squirmed closer to the divan and Kemal wove his fingers through his braided collar and pulled him gently back. “Whatever they are, the last thing they need is to wake up staring into your great slobbering muzzle,” he said fondly. “Lie down.”

As Jaq settled unwillingly, Kemal glanced about the room. It looked as if their two unexpected guests had touched nothing except the food. Which was hardly surprising given their pinched expressions and ragged clothes.

“But where did you come from?” he whispered. “And what are you doing here?”

The wind suddenly whistled through the screen, ruffling the fur on Jaq’s back, and he half rose with a whine.

“What is it?”

The dog strained toward the far wall. Kemal sent a questioning prayer toward the God, but Estavia simply returned the sense that all was as it should be in Her temple courtyards.

“There’s nothing there, Jaq.”

The dog whined again and Kemal frowned. He’d had Jaq for two years, ever since the God had directed him to a bloody bundle clutched in a dead farmer’s arms after a battle at Kepek-Koy. The bundle had turned out to be a frightened, five-month-old, russet-colored puppy with a powerful protective streak toward children and an uncanny sense of danger. Kemal had never doubted either before.

“So I won’t doubt you now, then. But go gently.”

He released the dog’s collar, and keeping low, Jaq crept forward until he was between the boys and the far screen, then he stilled. Kemal shook his head.

“Now if that isn’t the strangest thing you’ve ever done.”

The dog’s ears flicked, but he otherwise remained motionless.

“All right, stay there, then. That’s a good dog.” Kemal sat back on his heels. As the wind continued to whistle through the screens with an almost musical tone, he watched the flickering lamplight, his mind mulling over his earlier concern. Something had happened, and he’d missed it; he was as sure of that as Jaq was of his intangible threat. But he still had no more idea of what it had been than what had gotten Jaq so edgy.

“And were they the same thing?” he asked the dog rhetorically. “And why am I asking you anyway when I should be asking the God?”

As the first notes of the day’s evening Invocations echoed in the distance, Kemal reached out with his thoughts, seeking clarity. As the Third and final Night of Havo’s Dance began, he saw once again the shadowy image of a child standing on the rain-slicked streets of Anavatan but nothing else. He glanced over at the boys again.

“But which child is it?” he asked. “Or is it neither of them?”

Deep within him, the God gave back no response and, standing with a sigh, he dropped into parade rest and waited for them to awaken.

Out on the wild lands, the setting sun sent fingers of orange light feathering through the grasses. Kursk halted the kazakin for the night under the first rocky tor they reached and, while Rayne and the other youths took the ponies and the water bags to a nearby stream and the adults made camp, he passed Graize gently down to his younger kardos, Ozan.

“Watch his head. He’s dazed.”

Ozan frowned. “Are you sure he’s even alive?”

“He lives; whether or not he’s alive remains to be seen.”

Dismounting, he accepted the boy back into his arms.

“I’ll hold him now. You pitch the tent.”