The Silver Lake (60 page)

With the fighting season also coming to an end, the mounted Warriors of Estavia returned to their temple and their home villages to aid in those preparations while the Yuruk banners disbanded into individual kazakin, and made for their own winter encampments, driving their flocks and herds before them. And at Estavia-Sarayi it was decided that Kemal and Yashar would remain at the temple with their delinkon to continue their training until spring.

Seated in her usual place on her divan, wrapped in heavy woolen shawls, Elif glanced up as Marshal Brayazi crossed the training ground to stand beside her.

“You’ve a frowning aspect, Bray-Delin,” she said, her voice slightly amused. “Hasn’t the chamberlain laid up enough boza and raki for the winter?”

The marshal gave her an unimpressed look, but just shook her head. Crouching, she leaned one elbow against the arm of the divan, her many long braids falling forward over her face. “I have a frowning aspect because I was summoned before one of my own seers as if she were the marshal and not I,” she answered stiffly.

“Is that all?” Elif gave a disdainful sniff. “Injured pride?”

“Abandoned paperwork. I have to find a diplomatic way to tell the doyen of Thasos that we cannot expand our naval presence in the southern strait.”

“Then you should thank me. I summoned you here to discuss a potentially serious prophetic situation.”

“Which couldn’t be discussed in my office or in the audience chamber over a cup of hot salap?”

“Samlin says I need the fresh air. Apparently, my lungs are beginning to fail.”

An expression of concern replaced the one of mock annoyance on the marshal’s face. “Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”

The old woman just shrugged. “As odd as it may seem, no,” she said, watching a flock of storks make their way across the sky toward Gol-Beyaz. “When Estavia feels the need to call me to Her bosom, I won’t be bothering to discuss it with you or anyone else; you’ll just find me dead. Oh, don’t fret,” she added in response to the other woman’s concerned expression. “The Most Learned High Healer keeps filling me up with nasty little tinctures made from fish oil and whatever else he can scrape off the bottom of his shoe. Apparently, they’re strengthening. No, I need to talk to you about Bessic, the new First Oracle of Incasa who’s been writing me some very pressing and worrisome letters about Spar as of late. The delon’s abilities are waxing, despite his young age.”

The marshal glanced over to where Spar was standing in his usual place, systematically piercing a practice dummy in the chest with shaft after shaft, his expression blank and staring.

“Age,” she repeated. “Was it his upbringing or his experiences since that’s aged Spar so quickly, do you think?”

Elif gave an eloquent shrug that dropped the shawl about her shoulders into her lap. “Both, I would imagine.” She paused as Murad came forward to readjust it, then retreated out of earshot again. “But he’s not so old as he pretends to be,” she continued, her tone softening. “He still needs both nurturing and discipline.”

The marshal snorted. “You’re one to talk about discipline. You let him run away from lessons whenever he pleases.”

“He’s a seer. His lessons are different than mere weapons training and strategy.”

“Exactly. He needs religious training and practice in the seer’s circle, neither of which he’s had.”

“I’m waiting for a sign.”

The younger woman glanced over at her. “You know, I’ve always suspected that was just a seer’s ploy to get people off your back.”

Elif smiled. “Suspicion is not proof, Delin,” she answered, her cataract- and vision-filled eyes warming. “Besides, how much training outside the weapons’ circles has Brax completed?”

“That’s different.”

“Is it? Can he even write his name yet?”

“Writing’s an overrated skill for a soldier.”

“But not for a priest, and if he’s to be consecrated as ghazi-delinkos, he must be educated. Come Bray-Delin, it didn’t kill you, it won’t kill him. He’s close to his oath-taking, he needs more academics.”

“How close?” “Tanay says he crossed fifteen ten days after Havo’s Dance. He should be ready by next Low Spring. But ...” she held up one warning hand. “Brax glows with the silver light of Her favor. And it’s a hot light; too hot for his age. It might burn him out or the God might bear him up. Delinkon may not make their oaths before sixteen, but whether they receive the Gods Themselves before that has always been mere speculation.”

“So what you’re saying is that the ritual is actually meaningless?”

“Don’t get smart,” Elif snapped irritably. “You know very well that the ritual has meaning, it’s age that’s sometimes meaningless. But in this case Brax’s age is acting against him. He needs to learn how to read and write,
Ghazi-Priest
Marshal Brayazi.”

The younger woman raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Fine. I’ll have Kemal throw him in a sack tomorrow morning and force him to take lessons from Ihsan with Spar. Happy?”

Elif inclined her head graciously. “Yes, and in exchange I’ll suggest, but only suggest, mind you, that Spar join Brax in the shield circle in the afternoon. He’ll likely go, he wants Brax to be learned as much as I do, and so he may be willing to honor our exchange of hostages, but he may not. Don’t be surprised if he vanishes before then.”

The marshal shrugged. “If he vanishes, he’s easily found; he’s generally in the kitchens, and before you wonder, no, Tanay has not approached me regarding any shift in his training away from weapons and toward baking and pushing people around. But apparently Senior Abayos-Priest Neclan also wants to interview him.”

“I would imagine that’s because, like all of Oristo’s priests, she believes theirs is the only temple that can raise delon properly.”

“They may be right,” the marshal said, watching as Spar jerked a handful of arrows from the practice target with an angry expression.

“Bollocks,” Elif retorted bluntly.

“Hm. So you don’t think she wants him for his prophetic ability?”

Elif gave a dismissive wave of one gnarled hand. “Seers with such a strong gift as Spar’s do not serve at Oristo’s temple,” she sniffed. “Only Incasa’s and Estavia’s. But,” she held up one hand. “Don’t be so quick to rule out Tanay, regardless. I’ve always had my suspicions about her abilities and if she wants him, she may get him. They spend a lot of time together. Nothing is constant, Brax has proved that.”

“So, what do we do?”

“Nothing. It’s a long shot and if it happens, we’ll see it coming.” Her expression grew serious. “The machinations of Incasa’s temple, however, are an entirely different, much more dangerous, matter. And that’s why I
summoned
you, Marshal-Delin. As I said, the new First Oracle’s been taking far too strong an interest in Spar recently. The delon’s forays into vision have begun to disturb the streams.”

“The streams or the God of streams?”

“Both, likely. Bessic has asked for permission to interview him.”

“Why? Can’t their people see the future around the ripples caused by a ten year old?”

Elif just shrugged.

“Have you told Kaptin Liel?” the marshall asked.

“No, but Liel will be resistant, of course.”

“Good. Incasa’s temple’s never been happy with the autonomy of Estavia’s battle-seers. They’re always trying to lure the less combative ones away and they’re not getting Spar. He’s ours.”

“I shouldn’t worry about his being less combative,” Elif said mildly. “He’s far more aggressive than he seems. But it helps that we’re agreed; it saves us from having to convince you to hide him when Bessic arrives.”

“Which will be when?”

“Whenever you
invite
him.”

“How about next High Spring?”

Elif snickered. “I don’t imagine he’ll want to wait that long, but ...” she shrugged. “It’s your temple.”

“Not to hear Tanay talk. Or yourself for that matter.” Brayazi sat back on her heels with a grimace. “I suppose it had better be sooner than later,” she sighed. “But do you think we could we stall him for a few weeks at least?”

“Possibly. I’ve stalled him for as long already.” Elif frowned. “Something’s about to happen, Bray-Delin. I can feel it in my bones. And the visioning is changing from water to fire.”

“But isn’t that good? After all, Estavia’s imagery is fiery, isn’t it?”

“No, it is not good,
Marshal,”
Elif snapped. “Estavia’s
manifestations
are fiery, not Her imagery.”

When Brayazi just gave her a mystified expression, she clucked her tongue in annoyance. “Never mind. You’d understand that if you were a seer.” Her milky-white gaze tracked across the sky, watching the swirls of power wheel and turn like a flock of starlings seeking autumn berries. “A child of great potential still unformed standing on the streets of Anavatan. The twin dogs of creation and destruction crouch at its feet. The child is ringed by silver swords and golden knives and its eyes are filled with
fire.
It draws strength from Anavatan’s unsworn and will be born under the cover of Havo’s Dance.”

“Freyiz’s prophecy.” The marshal tipped her head to one side. “Incasa’s temple has never fully explained its particulars to anyone’s satisfaction. At every Assembly it’s always the same: what is it, is it dangerous, what do we do about it? They always answer: wait.”

“The waiting may soon be over.”

“How soon?”

“Within the year, I’m thinking. The future is in motion, caused by something greater than whatever our little oracle over there is disturbing,” she added, nodding toward Spar who was now standing talking quietly with Brax on the other side of the training yard. “Something that’s been in motion for some time.”

“The prophecy.”

“Likely; a stream with many strands swaying back and forth like fine sea grass drifting in the ocean.” Her voice had gone wispy and soft and the marshal had to lean over to hear her. “A hundred futures, some ending in blood, others in flowers. Now where have I seen that imagery before?” She glanced up. “I’m getting old, Delin, old and forgetful.”

“Nonsense. You’re just tired.” As a fine, cool rain began to fall, the marshal stood, gesturing to Murad who came forward to lift up the old woman, blankets and all. “I think it’s best to be blunt with the First Oracle,” she decided. “I’ll write to him that he cannot see Spar this autumn whatever the streams may be doing. He’s too young and too vulnerable since he experienced Chian’s death. Perhaps sometime in winter if Samlin agrees.”

Elif nodded wearily. “Bessic was a patient delon as I remember,” she mused. “Good at teasing the wilier fish from the waters around Adasi-Koy. I don’t know if this new position has changed him, but I should think we have until Havo’s Dance at the latest before he gets really snippy.” She laid her head against her attendant’s shoulder. “I’ll let you know if that changes.”

“And what about the prophecy?”

The old woman grinned mischievously. “As Incasa’s temple keeps saying: wait. I’ll let you know if that changes, too.”

“Sayin ...”

“Delin.” She turned. “Murad, I’d like to visit the infirmary for a few moments. I feel the need for one of Samlin’s nasty little tinctures.” As her attendant turned to go, the seer reached out from her nest of blankets and shawls to touch the marshal lightly on one arm. “Our own stream should open up by Havo’s Dance at the latest,” she said. “Until then, be patient and do nothing.”

“Yes, Sayin.” Stepping back, Marshal Brayazi watched as Murad carried the old woman through the pairs of training fighters, all of whom paused to smile or salute her as she passed. Brax and Spar followed their progress with their eyes until they disappeared through the infirmary door, then they turned and made their own way to the infantry quarters, Jaq keeping close behind.

“Havo’s Dance it is,” the marshal said thoughtfully. “But no longer.”

ORISTO’S AUTUMN PASSED and, as Incasa’s winter squalls darkened the waters of Gol-Beyaz, those warriors remaining at Estavia-Sarayi settled down to a quiet routine of storytelling, gambling, and guard duty. The days grew shorter and the rains colder. The sun hid its face behind a constant veil of heavy, gray clouds and a bone-chilling mist that covered every surface, inside and out, with a damp, slippery coating of moisture. In Cyan Company’s quarters, Kemal and Yashar divided their time between their duties and their orders to keep Spar and Brax focused on religious and academic training. It was hardest with Brax who seemed increasingly unable to concentrate on anything that did not involve the sword, but even Spar had begun to show an un-characteristically stubborn disinterest, often disappearing from their rooms well before dawn. As the final days of winter brought a violent storm sweeping in from the northern sea to drive even the hardiest warrior into the dormitories, they eventually gave up. Spring would see warmer weather and then they could all concentrate a little better. Spar took the news with his usual elan; Brax breathed a sigh of relief.