The Silver Lake (70 page)

Reaching up, he ran his fingers along the length of their leader, the Godling, wrapped, as usual, about his neck like a scarf. This close to Gol-Beyaz, It shimmered half in and half out of the world, its misting breath as silvery bright as Its opalescent eyes. It rumbled back at him in sleepy contentment, knowing that it was not yet time, and Graize turned his attention to his mortal companions crouched patiently on the rocks beside him, awaiting his signal.

Despite their traditional mistrust of travel by water, he’d convinced his handpicked kazakin to take a small boat down the Halic-Salmanak that morning, Ozan and Kursk rowing quietly while Graize and Danjel wrapped their movement in mist and shadows and Rayne and Caleb stared into the gloom.

But they needn’t have worried. This close to Havo’s Dance, Anavatan was not interested in the north, only in the west. They’d come ashore an hour ago, drawing up the boat, and sharing a loaf of bread and a round of sheep’s cheese washed down with a skin of kimiz before settling down to wait for nightfall. Now, Ozan played a quiet and melancholy tune on his kopuz while Kursk methodically tied a dozen loose knots into a braided piece of hemp; Rayne and Caleb lay sleeping, curled up together, wrapped in their aba’s sheepskin coat, with their fur caps pulled tightly over their eyes, dreaming of riding and of fighting; Danjel sat, back pressed against the tower wall, apparently asleep as well, but Graize could feel the bi-gender wyrdin’s mind racing across the Berbat-Dunya, gathering up their army of spirits for the attack that was to come.

Closing his eyes with a smile, Graize tossed a careless challenge toward Illan, before sending his own mind out to join Danjel’s above the plains. For an instant the image of a tall, red tower wavered before his eyes, but with a wave of his stag beetle, he swept it away. They would be ready when all their enemies, both mortal and immortal, arose this Havo’s Dance. Ready and happy to oblige them in battle.

Far to the north, Illan Volinsk accepted the boy’s challenge with a cold smile. Standing before his atlas table, he moved his small collection of Yuruk pieces to the mouth of the Bogazi-Isik beside Panos’ new sea-green turtle, then ran one loving finger along the small, golden figurine already in place across the strait, before turning his attention to the bleakly gray sky beyond his window. As the cloud-obscured sun dropped below the waves, he raised a glass of mulled wine in salute toward Graize and Spar, then settled back into a thick brocaded chair to think of Panos and to wait for the drama to unfold.

Beneath the shadow of Dovek-Hisar with her faithful mapmaker, Panos felt Illan’s thoughts whisper through her mind like a love song in the distance. Taking her silver flask from her cloak, she downed the contents, allowing herself a wistful sigh that she wasn’t back home standing naked beside the warm, sparkling waters of her own south Deniz-Hadi with Illan in her arms and with nothing more important to do than make love on the soft, musical sand of Amatus.

But there would be time enough for that later, she promised herself, when all this Godly nonsense was resolved and her duty to Memnos was concluded. Then she could deal with the pushy old oracle and set her own designs in motion, both hers and Illan’s if they really matched as well as he’d promised her they would.

Trailing her fingers through the cold, power-filled waters of Gol-Beyaz, she sent a thread of loving, plum-colored passion toward her northern sorcerer before settling down to wait once more, her eyes as dark as Spar’s.

At Incasa-Sarayi, Freyiz was also waiting, although not nearly so patiently. The cold stone of the temple’s High Seeking arzhane-chamber was making her joints ache, despite the heavy woolen carpet laid down especially for her, and the incense-saturated air was causing a thousand tiny visions to spin about her eyes like mayflies. One of the visions became the now familiar tower on the northern sea, and she glared at it in peevish displeasure. Banishing the vision with a brusque wave of one hand, she hunkered down into her nest of shawls and blankets, wishing once again that she’d never left her nice warm meditation room in Adasi-Koy. But it was too late for regrets now. For good or for ill, she had heeded the call of her God as she always had and returned to Anavatan to help Him mold the future to His own desire.

Deep within her mind, Incasa sent a mollifying trickle of cool power through her joints and she accepted it graciously as a mother might accept the apology of an errant child before turning her attention to the preparations going on all around her.

In the center of the arzhane half a dozen delinkon attended the First Oracle, some lighting the ring of incense braziers that surrounded him like so many tiny, iron towers while others arranged his robes and cushions in the manner laid down by Incasa Himself centuries before. He looked fretful and self-conscious and Freyiz remembered how stiflingly hot and restrictive it had all felt before the years of familiarity and the pressure of her increasingly powerful visions had pushed it all into the background of her awareness, proving that one could get used to anything in time. And proving that one could also miss even the most uncomfortable of routines after years of practice, she added with a cynical snort only slightly tinged with a kind of sad nostalgia. She had sat in that very same circle for nearly twenty-five years, as the most favored and beloved of Incasa’s chosen, attended and revered for the intimacy of His prophetic touch. It was harder to give up than she’d thought.

For a moment, she considered alerting Bessic to the danger of the tower’s presence, then dismissed the idea. The new First Oracle had enough to concern himself with right now without any perfectly reasonable advice that might come across as meddling. A High Seeking of this magnitude, coming as it did on another Deity’s most powerful First Night, could burn out the mind of a stronger seer than Bessic in an instant, something he was obviously well aware of. His forehead was slick with sweat and his eyes, already misted over with a fine white veil, darted this way and that, unable to keep still. With a sigh, she quieted her own thoughts and sent a thin line of calming power his way. He blinked in surprise; then, as his eyes met hers, he gave her a slightly rueful smile before returning his attention inward, noticeably more composed.

Accepting a cup of rize chai laced with raki from a junior priest, she returned to her own thoughts, willing to allow herself one moment of petty satisfaction at his inexperience while, around her, the rest of Incasa’s temple-seers now took their places as the first note of Havo’s Evening Invocation signaled the beginning of nightfall.

Beneath Lazim-Hisar, Graize stood as the dusk fell about him like a shroud. The Godling awakened at once and, with a flick of his wrist, Graize sent It shooting out into the air to ride the wind of the coming storm before turning to rouse his kazakin.

And in Kaptin Haldin’s shrine, Spar felt rather than heard the first note of Havo’s priests echoing through his mind like a call to arms. Rising, he crossed the room, Jaq at his heels, to prod Brax with one sandaled toe.

“Come on. We’re going.”

Opening his eyes at once, Brax nodded.

The lower level corridors were dark and deserted, the click of Jaq’s nails as he followed obediently behind them the only sound to be heard.

“Everyone’s in place,” Brax said hoarsely and Spar could see the effort it took him not to turn toward the wide, marble stairwell that led up to the Infantry shrines. “I can feel it. Kemal and Yashar and the others. I can even feel Marshal Brayazi and Kaptin Liel waiting for Estavia to call them.”

“We’ll be in place long before that happens,” the younger boy assured him. “This way.”

He led him deeper into the temple proper, following one of the more narrow corridors he’d discovered that summer. It made its way due east, past a series of store-rooms and wine cellars until it opened up into an octagonal atrium where the white, marble walls gave way to the hard, gray stone of the outer defenses. From there, he took a winding stairway that led up to a small, wooden door at the top. It was so like the one they’d entered a year ago that he froze suddenly, the memory of the terrible swarm of spirits that had attacked them on Liman-Caddesi causing the breath to catch in his throat. The overwhelming savagery of their hunger washed over him once again, but just before their icy, clawed fingers touched his flesh, Jaq shoved his nose into his palm, jerking him back to the present. With an angry gesture, he shoved the door open with more force than he’d intended. The wind caught it, sending it slamming against the wall, and Brax shot him an exasperated glance before he retrieved it, closing it carefully behind them. Spar paid it no heed, merely moved cautiously to the edge of the battlements before turning his whitewashed gaze to the western horizon.

Day had become dusk since they’d entered Kaptin Haldin’s shrine, the air turned a dark, sickly-green and smelling of death. As the wind sent a scattering of fine rain mixed with ice pellets scoring across his face, he felt Brax crouch down, his back against the sentry box wall. Jaq began to whine gently, and he dropped his hand down to stroke the animal’s great head as he stared past Estavia’s statue and Her temple turrets to Anavatan, feeling the hungry anticipation of those spirits that had managed to worm their way through the cracks in the God-Wall, pooling in the shadowy crevices of the city like a liquid fungus.