The Silver Lake (38 page)

Brax turned.

The wall shimmered a brilliant yellow in the growing light of dawn, the God-Power stretching its protective surface a mile into the air. It seemed impregnable, unscalable, but beyond it he could see massive storm clouds gathering to the west and he knew it wouldn’t be long before his dream was made real. The spirits were waiting out there, impatiently biding their time, testing and prodding each spring for some, for any, weakness they might exploit. One day they would find it and then they would attack.

And he would be there.

He turned back, nodding even as Estavia’s words echoed in his mind.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Then She was gone.

He stood for a long time, staring out at the still water, feeling the last of the pain in his arm fade away. As the first note of Havo’s Morning Invocation reached his ears, he glanced down, expecting to see a deep, blood-pumping gash across his wrist, but where Estavia’s sword point had scored the skin, only the faintest outline of crudely drawn wall, like the symbols he painted each morning, remained. As he watched, it swiftly disappeared in the growing light, but he could still feel it, throbbing just beneath the surface.

For a heartbeat, he marveled at his own audacity, then a wide grin split his features. He’d called and She’d answered. He was favored of Estavia and he would become Her Champion, he would defend Her barrier, and nothing,
nothing
would get through it. Not ever. His head spinning with images of glory and of battle, he headed back toward the village. He couldn’t wait to tell Spar what had just happened.

In Bayard’s main room, the younger boy had been sitting up in bed for half an hour waiting for Brax to return, and watching the last of the moonlight dance across the floor. As Havo’s priests began the Invocation to their God, he cocked his head to one side. He should be back soon. Pushing away a tinge of worry, he absently stroked one of Jaq’s silken ears. Brax’d be all right, he told himself.
She’d
protect him. She liked him. She’d give him whatever he wanted, and Brax wanted to be Kaptin Haldin. Whatever that meant.

But what did
he
want?

Something deep into his mind seemed to freeze in anticipation as he considered the question. He’d never really thought about it; Cindar and Brax had always managed to get him whatever he needed before.

The words came into his head almost before he finished the thought on the heels of the now familiar tower image. He frowned. The image had been pressing against his mind again ever since they’d left Calmak-Koy, but it had never used actual words before.

“Are they?”
he demanded experimentally.

He snorted. The words were Brax‘s, but the voice was his own, probably just to confuse him and keep him in the dark about who was actually in that tower, he decided.

“Is it?”
the voice prodded.

“No.
”

The voice went silent.

“He’s going to leave you, you know,”
it continued after a moment.

The words were spoken in his own voice now, but Spar just shook his head in disgust, recognizing the ploy.

“Grow up,”
he snapped.
“I’m nine years old, not five.”
Lying back, he pulled the blanket over his shoulders as he heard Brax’s familiar footfall outside the door.

“Don’t you want to know when it’s going to happen?”
the voice insisted quietly.

Spar made no answer, but as Brax shed his clothes and slipped under the blankets beside him, he shivered.

PERCHED ABOVE A ROCKY PROMONTORY jutting into the northern sea, Cvet Tower stood like a spike of sullen red fire in the cloudy sky. Built seven centuries ago by Duc Leold Volinsk as a beacon for his ships returning with tribute from their conquest of Anavatan, its great signal fire had never been lit; the Warriors of Estavia had sent his fleet to the bottom of the ocean, and a year later the duc himself had been deposed by his cousin Anise Rostov. Believed to be haunted by the spirits of his long dead fleet, Cvet Tower was abandoned. It stood empty, staring blankly out across the sea at the distant shores of its defeat for six hundred and eighty years, until it was once again occupied by a Volinsk with designs against Anavatan.

In the south tower window, Prince Illan Dmitriviz Volinsk stood as still as the tower itself, watching the rain hammer rivulets of prophecy against the sea and mulling over the future. A tall man of twenty-one, dark-haired despite his ancient northern blood, with deep-set eyes that focused inward more often than out, Illan was believed to be one of the finest seers in Volinsk, but very few knew the true scope of his abilities. Or of his ambition. As the rain beat a steady pattern of possibilities against his mind, he turned from the window and crossed to the carved wooden atlas table standing in the center of the room.

Built in the southern style—in Anavatan itself, in fact, the knowledge of which gave him a deep sense of ironic satisfaction—its inlaid tiled surface had been designed to represent the sea and the three most powerful nations on its coastline; each one picked out in a different precious metal: silver for Anavatan, copper for Rostov, and gold for Volinsk. On each one a number of marble figurines carved as horses, people, towers, ships, and siege equipment had been carefully arranged.

Lifting one between finger and thumb, Illan studied it carefully. Something portentous was happening across the sea, something that was going to transform the tedious prophetic imagery of streams and pools and raindrops to the more exciting and useful imagery of fire. It would finally be truly advantageous for Volinsk, but this time there would be no ill-prepared fleet of ships sent out against a strong and God-protected foe by a brainless and imprudent ruler. This time they would allow the rot to settle in first, then they would act behind a mantle of political dissembling so thick that even Incasa, their God of political dissembling, would be unable to penetrate it until it was far too late. And the pivotal piece was the Anavatanon child, Spar.

The small figurine gleamed in the dim light as Illan set it down on the southernmost point of Gol-Beyaz. Spar was unique. Most seers and oracles navigated the realm of prophecy from a passive position, interpreting the flow of imagery and emotions through the reactions of their minds and bodies, reactions very different from those of the prophetically blind. A very rare few, like Illan himself and even the boy Graize—should he not spiral down into gibbering madness—could use their abilities to touch the minds of other seers; in Illan’s case, with actual words. An even smaller number could interact with the realm of prophecy itself, imposing their will upon the threads and streams of possibility. These few, like Spar, could be a powerfully dangerous force in the world if not properly controlled.

And Spar would be controlled, trained, and aimed in the direction of Illan’s choosing. The boy’s painfully transparent denial that he needed any training at all and the fact that Illan wasn’t the only one to realize his potential made the challenge that much sweeter. He loved a contest of wills, especially against the overconfident God of Prophecy and His so-called Oracles. But, he cautioned himself, the rot had to settle in there as well.

The sound of a booted foot striking the tower’s uneven nineteenth step interrupted his reverie and a moment later, his sergeant-at-arms, Vyns Ysav, entered the tower room. Some twenty years older than the prince, he’d served as his personal servant and bodyguard since before Illan could walk. He kept his tongue in his head and his ear to the ground and was a useful sounding board for those times when the prophetic streams became more muddied than simple ruminations could clear. Illan found him as valuable a tool as his atlas table. As the older man crossed to the center of the room, he turned his head to accept his salute, waiting for the message he was already aware of.

“A mounted company approaches along the coastal road, My Lord,” the sergeant announced.

“Yes. It’s Dagn,” Illan answered, allowing a note of impatience to creep into his voice at the thought of his eldest sister. “With questions from our ducal brother, Bryv.” Lifting a crowned figure from the center of Volinsk, he held it up to the light. “He wants to know if this season’s fighting against Rostov will be successful.”

Vyns tilted his head to one side. “Will it, sir?”

“No more than last season’s.”Taking the crowned figure and placing it among a host of mounted knights near the Rostov border, Illan shrugged. “However, since the fighting actually serves a better purpose than simply grinding Cousin Halv’s armies into dust, it will do for now. As long as it’s not too costly,” he added to cut off Vyns’ satisfied smile. “Which it’s becoming.”

“Dangerously so, sir?”

Illan’s eyes misted in concentration. “Not quite yet,” he answered after a moment’s reflection. “Next season, if the harvest is poor, they may have to be reined in a little.” Clearing his eyes with a brief shake of his head, he smiled coldly. “But for now, Dagn and Bryv are free to squander our resources as they see fit.”

The sergeant frowned. “That isn’t what you’re planning to tell Her Grace, is it, sir?”

Illan sighed. “To some extent I plan to tell Her Grace the truth, or at least as much of it as she’s willing to hear.” Lifting the delicately carved figure of a south sea fighting ship, he studied the tiny royal flag on its bow with a dreamy smile. “Don’t become fretful, Vyns,” he assured the other man after a moment. “I’ll not say anything too impolitic today; it’s not yet time for that, and when it is, you’ll have plenty of warning.” He set the ship down facing the island of Thasos to the south of Gol-Beyaz. “But it hardly matters,” he continued. “Unless I see a crushing defeat for Volinsk—or possibly his own death—Bryv won’t change his plans. The campaign against Rostov is as comfortable and familiar as an old pair of boots. It will take a very special pair of new boots to dislodge it.”

“And the new pair of boots is in Anavatan, sir?”

“The new pair is Anavatan, Vyns. But it’s important that neither the cobbler nor the buyer realizes that, lest the latter get too greedy and force the former to close up shop.”

Vyns gave him a confused look and, with a sigh, Illan lifted two gold-and-copper-crowned figures, bringing them face-to-face with each other. “As long as Volinsk and Rostov struggle over the same unarable stretch of steppe between them, the Anavatanon with their God-strengthened, self-righteous warrior-priests will believe we represent no immediate threat and will remain open for business with no added security on the door—on the passage through to the northern sea,” he explained patiently. “And, as long as both Volinsk and Rostov believe the other is defeatable, neither will reach for Anavatan prematurely.”

Vyns nodded. “I see now, sir.”

“Good.” Setting the figures back into place, Illan lifted two medium-sized Volinski fighting ships and, after a moment’s reflection, set them down in the center of the sea. Then, with a nod, he returned his gaze to the window, his expression already drawing inward. “The company will be here within the hour,” he said in a distant voice. “Have the kitchen lay out a meal and breach a cask of wine. They won’t be staying the night, so you needn’t prepare rooms. Say nothing of our conversation or my inclination. If Dagn should ask, inform her that I’ve been sequestered in my tower room all week, anticipating her arrival; that’s all you know.”