The Silver Lake (43 page)

He smiled in the darkness.

Yildiz-Koy. Where he and the new Presence would feed from more than just the spirits of the wild lands and their songs.

Roused by the thought, the Presence buzzed sleepily against his mind.

“Soon,”
he crooned to it.
“Soon, you’ll feed from spirits so strong this feast will seem like famine. Soon, you’ll feed from the Warriors of Estavia. And so will I.”

Closing his eyes, he reached for the ebbing storm once more, felt it touch the sleeping mind of the northern sorcerer across the sea and pulled his thoughts back quickly before the man could sense him in return. It was not yet time to engage with that potential ally-cum-enemy, but—he chuckled to himself—soon, very, very soon. Everything would be soon. Rayne was wrong. He was strong enough to follow the spirits and they would share their den with him whether they wanted to or not. Beetles ate anything, and he would eat the spirits, eat every last one of them, if they didn’t give him what he wanted. And the Presence would help him. It had been birthed into this world, and the first creature that had seen it was himself, whatever snowy-eyed Incasa might think.

Pressing himself against the warm curve of Danjel’s hip, Graize wrapped the new Godling he’d formed from lights and lightning and prophecy about his mind, and fell into a dreamless sleep as his storm faded into the distance.

THE MIDAFTERNOON SUN BEAT DOWN upon the white cobblestones of Thesa, the only town of note on the island of Amatus. Her golden hair falling loose about her shoulders, Panos walked freely through the northern market, the dust and the heat whispering fine lines of-music across her toes as she made her way through the crowded stalls, shops, and carts. She’d been coming here ever since she was a very small child and all the merchants knew her by sight as well as by reputation. Ignoring the many calls of greeting, she followed a faint line of pale light as it led her inexorably toward a familiar artisan’s tent, the counter lined with wooden toys and small stone sculptures. Lifting the figure of a white dolphin, she marveled at how the purely physical chill of cold marble battled the equally strong sensation of wind blowing through her mind.

The shop’s proprietor stepped forward, a pleased expression on her face.

“You honor my humble craft as always, Oracle,” she said with a bow, carefully keeping her gaze from locking with Panos‘. “How may I serve you today?”

Enjoying the taste of plums that the woman’s words evoked, Panos gave her a dreamy smile.

“How many colors do your marble creatures come in?” she asked, stroking the smooth length of the dolphin’s flank.

“As many as can be found on the bottom of Gol-Beyaz Lake, Oracle. What color do you seek?”

“A green tasting of spring rain beating down on tiny shoots of grain, and at the same time a green so dark it transforms your mouth into a forest of dark mystery.”

Used to such analogies, the artisan merely nodded. “And the creature?”

“A sea turtle.” Panos lifted her head to stare directly into the sun for a single breath, allowing the dazzling brightness to wash over her like the morning tide. “Young and fresh.” She returned her attention to the artisan. “About the size of my hand. It entered the water this morning and its spirit led me here on a trail of seaweed.”

“Ah, yes. I knew it was for something special.” Bending, the woman lifted the figure of a small turtle from beneath the counter. The light green of its back and belly was streaked with a much darker green that gave it a slightly striped quality. “I carved it last year,” she said, “as I watched the young struggle to the sea.”

“Yes.” Panos lifted the turtle until she could stare into its tiny marble eyes. “It’s so hard to be born, and harder still to grow. But we’ll help it.” She set it down carefully. “Wrap it up, please; it’s going on a very long journey.”

“Of course, Oracle. Will there be anything else today?”

Panos swept her gaze across the displayed figures, her black eyes narrowing in concentration. “No,” she decided after a moment. “I only need one gift in marble and anything wooden would only get burned up.”

The woman immediately looked concerned. “Burned, Oracle?” she asked worriedly. “Is there to be a fire?”

“Oh, yes, but not here. It’s being set far, far to the north in a tower by the sea.”

“Ah. Well, I hope it won’t get out of control,” the woman said politely as she handed Panos the figure wrapped carefully in oilcloth.

“I imagine it will,” Panos answered. “But I’ll be there soon to keep an eye on it.” Glancing back toward the mansion perched on the hill overlooking the marketplace, she watched as a royal delegation from Skiros arrived, standards rippling in the breeze. “Right on time,” she said happily. Stretching out one hand, she stroked it down the length of an imaginary lover in gleeful anticipation before she turned and made her way back to her mother’s home and the message from King Pyrros.

Far to the north, Illan Volinsk felt an unusually warm breeze whisper through his hair as he settled himself by Cvet Tower’s highest window and closed his eyes.

Lifting his face to the tantalizing aroma of smoke that drifted through his thoughts, he opened his mind to accept the powerful new vision taking form before him.

Burning.
Burning grain and burning grass, burning fields and burning homes. A new power had been born into the world on the wings of last night’s storm, with creation and destruction in equal measure crouched beneath its feet waiting to do its bidding, waiting for three children to light the fire of its birthing bed; a fire that might catch up the whole of the southern lands in flame, scorching the land in preparation for something wholly new and terrible.

Illan reached out and drew their names from the coals of possibility on a trail of whispering gray smoke:

He knew it. His breath quickened in excitement as each one paraded his destiny before him: standing on the brink of adulthood, Graize had already taken on the mantle of power and prophecy and Brax awaited nothing more than his God’s direction to throw his life away at Her command. Only Spar remained uncommitted to this new fire, standing in the wings, half hidden behind the God of Prophecy’s gray mantle, still so young and inexperienced despite all his untapped potential to shift the future from one stream to another. It only needed a gentle nudge to set his feet upon the path of Illan’s choosing before he was old enough to truly choose one for himself.

Outside the tower window, rain pelted against the sea in ribbons of gray mist, warning him that a fire could as easily be snuffed out as unleashed. He must be cautious still. He nodded. Just a nudge for now.

Sergeant Ysav’s characteristic thump against the uneven nineteenth step brought him back to himself just before the man advanced to the center of the room and saluted.

“You sent for me, sir?”

Illan turned from the window, his eyes as misty as the sky outside.

“It’s raining,” he said simply.

The sergeant frowned. “Sir?”

“It’s raining,” Illan repeated. “Rain brings first obscurity and then sweet-smelling clarity to both the physical and the metaphysical worlds.” He took a deep breath and slowly his eyes returned to their naturally dark color. “But first it brings obscurity.” Crossing to the atlas table, he began to clear an area along the western shoreline of Gol-Beyaz. “Let me pose a question of clarity to you on this rainy day, Vyns. Let us say that this,” he gestured, “is the enemy’s territory—which, of course, it is. And these,” he held up half a dozen armed figures, “are their forces.” He set them down carefully in a line along the shore. “Let us also say that these,” he held up another half a dozen mounted figures, “are their traditional enemies. Not,” he raised one finger, “their traditional
northern
enemies—those remain in a position of watchfulness for now.” He turned the figure of Cvet Tower so that it faced the western shore. “Nor any possible new enemy from either the south or from their own midst, but rather, their traditional
western
enemies, the Yuruk.” He set the mounted figures in a line facing the others.

“And the first enemy is ... the Anavatanon, sir?” Vyns hazarded.

“Yes, Sergeant, the Anavatanon, with their warriors, and their Gods, and their great wall protecting all that they hold.” Illan set a strip of pale blue-painted wood between the two forces. “So, here we have two peoples, the Anavatanon and the Yuruk. Now, if these two peoples are resolved to fight, to whom goes the advantage?”

Vyns shrugged. “The Anavatanon,
traditionally,
sir.”

“Agreed, and,” Illan gestured at Cvet Tower, “the Volinsk, for there will be deaths on both sides and this is always to our advantage, albeit in the short term. However, there are always variables which might extend the advantage to the long term if handled properly.” He frowned down at the table. “If handled properly,” he repeated.

“The Yuruk are massing to attack the village of Yildiz-Koy,” he continued with uncharacteristic bluntness. “Despite their so-called seers,” he added, his lip curling in disdain, “the Warriors of Estavia seem blissfully unaware of this. So what is the most likely outcome?”

Vyns scraped at a bit of stubble on his chin. “Does the village have adequate militia to fend them off, sir?”

“Ordinarily, yes, but the Yuruk have amassed a much larger force than usual due to the emergence of a new prophet in their midst: a charismatic young savage with madness in his eyes and the destiny of a thousand at his fingertips.”

“Sir?” Vyns asked, confused.

“Never mind.” Illan set the newly painted figure of a mounted seer on the table. “The outcome, Vyns.”

The sergeant shrugged. “If the village militia cannot drive them off, then the village is taken.”

“Yes. But if the village is taken, will the spirits that hover about our new prophet’s head like moths around a flame have the strength to break through the wall and reach Gol-Beyaz and by doing so tip their hand?” He stared at the expanse of white-and-silver painted waves in the center of the table as if the answer could be found amidst their swirling patterns. “I had thought perhaps they might have been strong enough this spring but that did not materialize,” he mused, “so I’m thinking not quite yet. So our young prophet is not planning to breach the wall this season; rather this is simply a raid to test the strength of his forces and build his leadership skills. And if they weaken the wall even a little, this will be all to the good. But will it also be all to the good for us?”

He turned to stare at the sergeant, his eyes paling to the color of summer clouds.

“There’s a new power rising, Vyns, a power that could destroy the Warriors of Estavia utterly. It’s still young, weak, and vulnerable, but it will quickly grow stronger and my question is: will this attack help it or hinder it? Will it rouse the Gods enough to cause Them to take the field, and if They do, what then?”

“If the Gods take the field, They’ll likely destroy this new, young power to keep it from destroying Their warriors, my lord,” Vyns answered.

“Yes, likely They will.”

“But the Yuruk have been raiding the villages around Gol-Beyaz for centuries,” the sergeant continued. “It doesn’t generally rouse the Gods, sir, does it?”

“No, but that’s because the Gods’ seers generally have a
slightly
greater modicum of true sight than they seem to have of late and so the Warriors of Estavia have always been able to mount an armed response.” Illan frowned. “So why are they so blind to this attack?”

“Something’s shielding it?”

“Some thing or someone.” Illan lifted the mounted prophet between finger and thumb. “Are you strong enough to accomplish this, Graize?” he asked it, staring into its tiny, painted face. “I wouldn’t have thought you were, but then you are a tricky little creature, aren’t you, and you’ve made some very tricky friends of late.” He set the figure down again, with a thoughtful expression. “It could be Incasa,” he considered. “He’s a tricky little creature, too. However, regardless of who or what may be shielding it, I don’t think I want the Gods involved just yet,” he decided, “so the Warriors of Estavia must be warned.”

“How, sir, if all their seers are blind?”

Illan smiled coldly. “By lifting that blindness from the one seer least likely to raise suspicion,” he answered, “The one seer they really should suspect, but never will until it’s far too late.” He smiled. “My seer.” Lifting Spar’s figure from its place atop Anahtar-Hisar, he reached out.