The Silver Lake (6 page)

Tucked between the planking at his feet, the host of gathering shadows felt the prophetic bond between all four boys tighten like a noose and agreed.

Three streets away, Brax and Spar had almost reached Oristo-Cami before the older boy stopped shaking with rage. Seeing Graize and Drove had brought up all his old feelings of resentment and frustration, and seeing them prosper without an abayos just made it worse. He was so distracted by his anger that he almost didn’t notice when Spar misread a step on the uneven cobblestones and stumbled. He threw out a hand reflexively, catching the younger boy before he realized what had happened—Spar never stumbled, not even when he was tired. Turning, he saw the younger boy’s eyes widen in fear and felt a shiver run up his spine. He glanced about quickly but couldn’t see anything that might have alerted Spar to danger.

“What?” he asked in a harsh whisper.

His gaze riveted on some inward peril, Spar could only shake his head, but when Brax caught him by the chin and snapped his fingers in front of his face, his blue eyes jerked back to focus on him.

“Is it us?” Brax demanded.

The younger boy managed to choke out a half strangled “No,” and Brax felt a sinking feeling grow in the pit of his stomach.

“Cindar.”

Without bothering to confirm his guess, Spar turned and ran for the marketplace.

Brax caught up with him just before he pelted into the open street and, grabbing him by the back of the jacket, yanked him behind a confectionary shop wall.

“Wait,” he ordered.

Gulping air like a stranded fish, Spar obeyed, his eyes wide and staring, as Brax craned his neck around the comer.

He saw Cindar almost at once, coming out of Uzum-Dukkan. He was already drunk and reeling, an earthenware jug cradled in the crook of one arm, and Brax’s lip curled in disgust. Beside him, Spar gave a jerk of renewed fear and Brax scanned the street, catching sight of a senior priest of Oristo, his richly brocaded robes stretching over a vast belly, chatting amiably with a troop of garrison guards about fifty yards away.

“Oh, crap,” he breathed and suddenly he could see what was going to happen as clearly as if he were the one with the prophetic sight and not Spar. If they moved now,
right now,
they could still intercept their abayos, distract him with whispered promises of shine and alcohol, and get him out of harm’s way. If they didn’t ...

Spar made to dart around him and, almost as if he was acting in a dream, Brax reached out and swung him back, pressing him against his body with one arm wrapped tightly around his chest to hold him back.

“No,” he said with almost preternatural calm. “It’s too late.”

He felt Spar tense in wordless protest, and then it truly was too late as priest and thief spotted each other at the same moment. Brax saw Cindar’s shoulders tense, saw his fists rise, and then he couldn’t believe his eyes as their abayos turned and, with a hateful sneer, snatched a jug from another customer just leaving the shop behind him. He flung the protesting man into the street, then turned to the priest and, raising the jug to his lips in belligerent defiance, took a deep drink as if daring him to do anything about it.

His eyes narrowed, the priest made a terse gesture and the garrison guards moved forward.

Cindar’s answering roar of fury echoed through the narrow streets. He flung both jugs toward them and, as the guards closed in, spears raised, Brax turned away to bury his face in Spar’s tangled hair, feeling rather than hearing the sounds of fighting through the younger boy’s slight frame as Spar jerked at the sound of every blow and shouted curse. Each time Spar tried to pull away and each time Brax held him back. When they finally heard a loud crack, he jumped and would have fallen if Brax hadn’t maintained his grip across his chest. He slumped then, his face white and, holding him up with one arm, Brax craned his neck around the corner again.

The guards were heading their way, dragging Cindar’s limp figure behind them. Two more carried one of their own and another supported the priest who had an ugly red mark across his face. There was blood on their weapons and blood on the suddenly misty ground.

His strength deserted him and, as the guards passed their hiding spot, Spar forced his head under Brax’s arm and came face-to-face with Cindar’s staring eyes, partially concealed by a mat of shadowy gore-soaked hair. He shuddered once then collapsed, and as he caught Spar instinctively, Brax knew. Cindar was dead. Back against the building, he slid to the ground, supporting Spar in his arms, suddenly unsure if his decision had been the right one but knowing now that it didn’t matter. For good or for ill, they were finally on their own and Cindar would never be able to come after them.

Two guards and an abayos-priest were waiting for them at the door to their room when they returned, not knowing where else to go. The priest took one look at Spar’s ashen features and guessed what had happened at once. Catching him around the waist, she thrust him, unresisting, into the arms of the older guard, then took Brax by the shoulder.

His first instinct was to fight like Cindar had done, but then his sense of self-preservation took hold and he forced himself to calm. Now was not the time, he told himself urgently. They had Spar and Spar couldn’t run. He needed to wait, to stay calm and to wait.

Making himself appear small and frightened, he shrank against the woman’s side in studied relief, allowing her to lead him down the dust-covered stairs and away from the only home he’d ever known, away toward Oristo-Cami and all the horrors Cindar had warned them of all their lives. As the Hearth God’s wrought-iron gates appeared before them, his heart began to pound overloud in his chest, but again he forced himself to wait.

By the time they reached the inner temple, he was almost shaking with the effort not to break and run. Spar had recovered enough to be set down, and the priest dismissed the guards, then led them along a wide, hushed antechamber to a wooden bench seated before a tall, mahogany statue of Oristo, hands held out in a position of, to Brax’s eyes, menacing welcome. Brax scowled at it, but said nothing as the priest ordered them each a cup of boza from an ancient protectorate hovering nearby.

As the priest turned, he suddenly recognized the woman who’d traded glares with Cindar from the temple steps not five hours before. The shock must have shown on his face because she attempted a stiff smile of reassurance.

“Don’t be afraid,” she said. “You’re not in trouble. Just sit here quietly until I return.”

He nodded weakly as she headed down the hall in a swish of heavy brown robes; then, after accepting the cup held out to him, he waited until the protectorate shuffled away before turning to Spar. The younger boy was sitting on the bench clutching his own cup, his face still dazed and blank, and his eyes glassy. Brax knelt in front of him.

“Spar?”

He blinked but did not look up.

“Spar, I have to go see if I can hear what they’re gonna do with us, all right? I’ll be just down the hall. Just there, yeah?” He pointed but Spar did not move his head. “You can see me there if you look, and I’ll be right back. All right? Spar?”

The younger boy finally gave the faintest of nods and, after pushing his cup under the bench, Brax rose and tiptoed to the open door of the room the priest had disappeared through, leaning as far forward as he dared.

“He attacked Mavin, Sayin,” he heard the priest explain to an unseen superior, her voice hinting at a barely controlled anger she hadn’t allowed the boys to see. “Estavia’s garrison attempted to restrain him and he was killed in the ensuing struggle. His delon must have witnessed the event, for the younger of the two is still quite prostrate.”

Brax frowned, unsure of the meaning of the word. He glanced at Spar who’d laid his head against the back of the bench and closed his eyes again. He looked gaunt and sickly and Brax guessed that whatever prostrate meant it was probably a pretty good description. He turned back to the door.

“How old would you say the delon are?” a voice of privilege and rank that made Brax’s teeth clench asked from deeper inside the room.

“The older looks to be no more than eleven or twelve,” the priest answered, and Brax smirked. “The younger may be six, possibly seven. I can petition Oristo for more accuracy tonight if you wish it.”

“Do that. In the meantime, however, I see no need to involve Estavia’s people any further due to their obvious youth,” the voice said.

“Yes, Sayin.”

Brax released a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, thankful as always that the two of them were so much smaller than others their age.

“I should imagine that the younger of the two has very little understanding of the life he’s led up until now,” the first priest continued. “We should be able to find him abayon willing to raise him without the fear that thievery has already twisted his nature. If not, I’m told that Duwan has been accepted at Oristo-Sarayi, so there’s room for another delinkos at Oristo-Cami in the Tannery Precinct ”

Brax stiffened.

“As for the older,” she continued, “if he can be placed in an honest, hard-working trade, he should be able to overcome his upbringing—with extremely close supervision of course.”

“Did you have a trade in mind?”

“Porter, perhaps, or cleaner, something like that, I should think. Their abayos left nothing behind to aid them in securing anything better.”

“Neglectful fool.” Brax heard the sound of a chair squeaking and knew the senior priest had stood. “Very well. Have the kitchens fix them something to eat, then have Evrin take the younger one to the Tannery Precinct Cami at once. The older can stay with the protectorates for the duration of Havo’s Dance and then...”

Brax didn’t wait to hear the rest. Making his way back to the bench as swiftly and as quietly as possible, he crouched before the younger boy, touching him lightly on the arm to rouse him.

“Spar?” he whispered.