The Silver Lake (26 page)

Far to the west, wrapped in a warm and heavy sheepskin beneath an escarpment on the plains, Graize lay surrounded by a multitude of cold, bright lights, sharing their dream of conquest and of death. To the north, a shadowy figure in a tall tower stood staring out at the waves of the Deniz-Siyah Sea and made his own plans while in the south, Panos of Amatus dreamed of a tall, brown-haired man, as interested in the vision of his broad shoulders and fine, narrow hips as she was in his prophetic abilities and political standing.

“BRAX. AWAKEN.” His eyes snapped open. Beside him, Spar and Jaq slept on undisturbed, and for a moment he stared up at the gold and silver mosaic-tiled ceiling with a disoriented frown. Then, as the God’s presence filled his mind, he smiled. With a contented yawn, he spent a moment enjoying the unfamiliar sensations of warmth and security before rising up on one elbow to glance around the room.

The temple’s golden guest suite was even more opulent in daylight than it had been by candlelight. A wide latticed window dominated the east wall; a large sculpted white marble altar, the west; the north and south were draped with brilliantly woven tapestries; and the lush woolen carpet was so bright in the morning sun it made his eyes water. Wondering idly if gold threads were worth more than gold tiles, he turned and poked both Spar and Jaq in the ribs. Boy and dog opened their eyes at once to glare at him resentfully and he grinned as he untangled himself from the nest of silken sheets and made for the window.

“Well, this is sure different from yesterday morning,” he noted, taking in a deep breath of the spicy spring air. “A warm room and a full belly.” Fixing the younger boy with an expression of mock seriousness, he cocked his head to one side. “Do you still wanna leave?” he asked.

Spar pointedly ignored him and, with a laugh, Brax crossed the suite to peer into the now empty bathing room. Last night it had blazed with light from half a dozen wall lamps, causing the inlaid metallic tiles to sparkle almost painfully around them. The porcelain tub, big enough to fit both of them, had been filled with hot, lavender-scented water and two of Oristo’s servers had been there to help them bathe. Brax had laughed aloud as he watched them try to comb through Spar’s tangled hair, but the constant tugging on his own head had nearly ruined the mood. However, when it was all over and they’d stood before the largest gilt-framed mirror they’d ever seen, gawking at the two clean, linen-clad strangers staring back at them, he’d felt suddenly as if they’d stumbled into some kind of street poet’s song.

The morning sun lighting up the tiles in streaks of golden brilliance did little to change that.

Rubbing his eyes, Brax moved on to the altar, running a wondering finger along the smooth surface of Estavia’s ebony-and-silver statue before staring down at the unfamiliar objects laid out before it. Then, following the pressure of Her presence, he reached for a stick of incense, lit it off a small lamp he was sure hadn’t been lit last night, and wrinkled his nose as the scent of lilac filtered up to him.

Spar padded up behind him with a curious expression and he shook his head. “I don’t know, but it’s what She wants.”

Shrugging out of his nightshirt, he picked up a fine, bone-handled paint brush and, after running his finger along the soft bristles, popped the seal on a small jar sitting beside it. As Spar watched, transfixed, he dipped the end of the brush inside, wiped the extra off against the lip, then turned it so that it pointed toward him. Feeling Her hand wrap about his he watched as, together, they drew the outline of a high, wobbly minaret along his left arm. Its meaning became clear almost at once.

“That’s Anavatan,” he explained in a faraway voice, knowing that his certainty came from the God.

Taking the brush awkwardly in his left hand, he then traced a crescent moon cupped about two crossed swords along his right.

“And that’s Her temple along with ... Cyan Infantry Company. Told them so,” he added.

He then exchanged hands again and moved on to his chest, drawing a stick figure with a small knife in one hand, “that’s me,” another shorter one, “that’s you,” and one with four legs and a long tail. “That’s ... the dog?” His eyes cleared. “You’re not serious.” The replying mental swat made him raise one hand in quick compliance. “All right, all right, You are serious. Here.”

Spar shook his head as Brax made to hand him the brush, but after a moment, he dutifully narrowed his eyes, tracing the same symbols on his own body, before handing it back. Brax grinned as he wiped the brush clean on a piece of silk cloth lying nearby.

“See, I told you we were meant to be here. I can’t wait till the council hears about
this.”

“I can’t wait either.”

The boys spun about to see both Yashar and Kemal leaning against the doorjamb. As the latter came forward, he glanced at their handiwork with an approving smile.

“Not too bad for your first protections. In time, the figures will be a little more detailed and a little less shaky.”

Brax glanced up at him.

“So everyone does this?” he asked.

“Every one of Estavia’s people do, yes. What the other Gods’ worshipers do, I couldn’t say.” He raised his sleeve to show the painted figures along his own forearm. “The symbols are the physical representations of the God’s protections.”

“They itch.”

“That’s the dye drying,” Yashar explained. “You get used to it.”

“How often do you have to do it?”

“We reapply them every morning.”

“Do they change?”

“Not usually.”

“Then why do you have to do it
every
morning?”

“Because the dye washes off as you sweat.”

“Doesn’t that make a mess?”

Yashar just shrugged. “That’s the laundry’s problem.”

Both boys exchanged a knowing glance. “Wouldn’t it be better to use a dye that didn’t wash off so fast?”

“No.”

“We reapply the symbols every morning so that we’re reminded of what we’re fighting for,” Kemal explained. “Home, Temple, the God, and our families.”

“Even your
pets?”
Brax interrupted.

“Anything we love.”

“I don’t love Jaq,” the boy countered, ignoring Spar’s indignant expression. “He took up way too much of the bed last night and he has dog breath.”

“I don’t much love him either,” Yashar agreed, “and for the very same reasons, but I have to add him every morning as well.”

“Well, sometimes it’s what the God loves,” Kemal noted. “Why, are you questioning Her already?”

His tone was much the same as Brax had used when asking Spar if he wanted to leave, but he took the question seriously, closing his eyes as he felt the growing warmth of the God flowing inside him. The thought of returning to a life without it made his chest ache.

“No.”

“There you are.”

“But ... what?” Brax paused as Spar elbowed him in the ribs. Following the younger boy’s gaze to the line of hair above Yashar’s collar, he rolled his eyes. “I’m not asking him that,” he responded sharply, knowing at once what was bothering him.

Spar continued to stare and finally Brax threw up his hands.

“Fine. He wants to know if you’re that hairy all the way down. It’s a stupid question,” he growled at the younger boy.

Kemal guffawed as Yashar nodded with an expression of mock seriousness.

“Even more so,” he answered.

“Everywhere. Arms, legs. And back,” he added with an evil grin as Spar made a face.

“So, how does the dye get through all that to your skin?”

Yashar put his palms together. “The God commands.” He opened them. “And the hair parts for the brush.”

“You mean it moves?” Spar and Brax exchanged a sickly glance.

“He’s lying,” Kemal said mildly.

“I am not. The God loves hair on a man. She likes to run her fingers through it,” Yashar retorted, stroking his much thicker beard than Kemal’s with a superior expression. “It moves with Her touch like grain in the wind.”

Spar gave him a disbelieving glance, but Brax unconsciously echoed the movement with a frown.

“You’ll grow whiskers soon enough,” Kemal assured him in an amused voice.

The boy shot him a sour look. “I haven’t grown any yet,” he groused.

“You’re still a youngster.” He held up one hand to cut off Brax’s immediate protest. “You’re an adult when Estavia says you are and not before. When that time comes, you’ll have as much hair as you’re meant to have and no more,
but...”
he gave Yashar a warning glance. “She’ll love you regardless. And, in the meantime,” he gestured at the two piles of neatly folded clothes on an inlaid mahogany trunk by the bed, “get dressed and we’ll help you roll up the pallet; it’s time for breakfast.”

The news of their arrival had swept through the temple and the eyes of everyone in the refectory hall followed them as they made their way to the long, central table. Tanay had managed to find two reasonably new delinkon tunics in deep blue and even though they’d no sandals just yet, and Spar’s tunic was far too big for him, both of them made a point of carrying themselves as if they’d always worn uniforms. It was a gesture that was not lost on the gathered. Whispers followed in their wake and Jaq, padding along beside Spar close enough for him to rest one hand on his broad back as they walked, growled low in his throat at anyone who stared at them for too long. Finally, Kemal rapped him on the forehead with one knuckle.

“Stop that.”

At the central table the long line of warriors parted for them and Spar gaped at the size of the serving platters heaped with food, but it was only after Brax pushed him forward with a whispered, “Eat,” that he took up a huge piece of bread and began to pile olives, cheese, and stuffed vine leaves almost frantically on to it. Wordlessly, Kemal handed him a porcelain plate and he accepted it without breaking stride, adding another piece of bread liberally smeared with honey and four large chunks of mutton to the pile before turning his attention to the rows of ewers, jugs, and tall silver urns which lined one end of the table.

Beside him, his own plate heaped with smoked fish, bread, dates and dried apricots, Brax glared at a plain jug of boza then, ignoring a second jug of warm, milk-based salap, poured himself a cup of black tea instead. After a longing glance at the second jug, Spar also reached for the tea.

Over their heads, Yashar and Kemal exchanged a quick look. The older man reached for the jug and casually knocked Spar’s hand away as if by accident.

“Oh, sorry, Delin,” he said, “I was just getting myself some milk.”

Spar stared at him as he filled a tall, crystal glass, watching the thick, white liquid froth over the sides and across his fingers. “What, you didn’t think I got this big drinking tea every morning, did you?” Yashar paused. “Do you want some before I put the jug back?” He winked at him and, with a shy smile of understanding, Spar took up a cup and held it out.

“Tell you what, why don’t you use a glass. It’ll hold more.” As the boy hesitated, he smiled. “Don’t worry; I know you won’t drop it.”

Looking dubious, Spar glanced over at Brax and the older boy just shrugged.

“Go ahead. If you break it now, it’s his fault for giving it to you.”

With a satisfied nod, Spar accepted the glass as Yashar chuckled. After filling it to the brim, he then laid a hand on the younger boy’s shoulder and guided him over to the cutlery table as Kemal glanced down at Brax.

“He follows your lead, you know,” he said quietly, as he poured himself a small cup of thick, black coffee. “And he’s not yet finished growing by a long way. He’ll need milk and the like to make him strong, so you might think about having a glass or two from time to time, if only for his sake.”

Brax glanced sideways at him, guessing at the unspoken words. “I wasn’t trying to act any older than I am,” he said defensively but in the same quiet tone of voice. “I drink milk sometimes. It’s just that tea’s cheaper.”

“Not here.”

“All right.” Deliberately, Brax set the teacup down and caught up another of the large crystal glasses. “You’ll need to pour it,” he said stiffly. “I can’t manage it one-handed.”

With a deliberately casual nod, Kemal lifted the jug.