7
Kardon
ON THE EDGE of the Berbat-Dunya, Graize rode seated before Kursk in the middle of the Rus-Yuruk’s kazakin-host. Eyes half closed and focused on a point somewhere between his pony’s ears and half a mile away, he floated in a heavy trance—made that much easier by the hypnotic swish, swish of the kazakin’s slow gait through the grasses. It seemed to calm his thoughts. Above his head, the lights merged and flowed like an ever-changing flock of silvery birds and, reaching out, he ran his mind through their midst almost instinctively. Touching each tiny spark of consciousness, he began to idly gather them up, weaving and binding them together under the pressure of their guidance until a crude human-seeming began to emerge.
The lights bonded swiftly with this new form, moving faster and faster with each passing hour and, as their singular awareness and sense of purpose grew in strength so did his own sense of self. When the kazakin crested a low rise in a jingle of tiny bells, and the shimmer that represented their spring encampment stretched out before him, he remembered his life on the streets of Anavatan.
His gray eyes narrowed as he glared at the lights, realizing that they were responsible for this sudden return to memory.
“The past is gone,” he told them sharply with more clarity than he’d felt since the attack on Liman-Caddesi. “If you want to make yourselves useful then show me the future, the near future.”
With an icy breath, a hundred visions rose up around him like a cloud of crystalline butterflies; places and events yet to be, both near and far. He flipped through them impatiently, discarding each one like a gem merchant sorting through inferior goods until he sensed that he’d found the one with the appropriate amount of power and riches won quickly, the power and riches he had always dreamed he would have.
“That one,” he demanded, pointing at the wavering image of a child of unformed potential hovering behind a dark-haired man surrounded by a host of silver swords. “Give me that one.”
The lights complied eagerly, throwing up the names and faces of the allies he’d need to make the vision a reality. The few he knew stayed still just long enough to be recognized: Kursk, Rayne, and Ozan of the kazakin; while the names of others he was yet to meet trailed faintly across his mind like spiderwebbing made of ice crystals: Timur, their oldest wyrdin, Ayami, Rayne’s abia, Caleb, her youngest kardos, Ozan’s delon—Rayne’s kuzon—Briz, Gabrie, and Tahnan, and her oldest kardos Danjel hovering in a cloud of mist. His people, his ... he strained to understand the sudden wash of icy possessiveness that came over him—his ... generals, the ones who would lead his army against the shining city and crack open the walls of Gol-Beyaz as he’d envisioned earlier in Kursk’s tent.
But there was something subtly different about this latest vision. He frowned.
His army?
The lights dimmed for just an instant and he knew then: not his army but their army, built to give them power and form. Folding his arms, he fixed them with a cold, unimpressed stare and the lights fluttered nervously about him, tempting and cajoling, promising him his power and riches and whatever else they could glean from his thoughts. After a long moment, he unbent enough to send them a morsel of reassurance. He didn’t need bribes to attack Anavatan, he only needed ...
The flicker of an image came and went almost before he could register it, but he knew whose face it was just the same: the dark-haired man, the one person who might upset all his plans; the one person who, in some far distant future, he might allow to upset his all plans for reasons he could sense but couldn’t yet understand. The one person who was ... key.
The lights gyrated in agitation, thrown into a panic by his train of thought and, almost absently, he sucked in a mouthful of tiny spirits and, holding the image of his beetle—cracked carapace and all—in his thoughts to focus him, he breathed a line of icy power through their midst, knowing instinctively that the spirits’ life force would feed the lights as well as they’d fed him. He would build them their army, he assured them, and unleash it upon the shining city like an avenging storm because it pleased him to do so, but after that he had other plans for his future and for theirs. The game was all that mattered, and Graize had always been very good at the game.
“And you’ll help me win it, won’t you,” he whispered. “Because I know what you want now and you’ll need my help to get it.”
Reluctantly, the lights agreed.
A few moments later a pause in the steady gait of the kazakin interrupted his thoughts, and he looked up to see that the shimmer had become a sea of sheep and goats flanked by half a dozen mounted Yuruk. The same high-pitched whistle he’d heard before the kazakin had approached him sounded across the plains and, as the other riders stirred, Kursk glanced down at him with a smile.
“Almost home now.”
He turned. “Standard-bearer, answer the call.”
With a huge smile, Rayne raised herself up in the saddle, and putting two fingers into her mouth, gave a long, ululating whistle in return.
There was a moment’s silence, then a series of short whistles, and Kursk nodded.
“All’s well. Let’s ride.”
Urging his pony into a canter, he brought the kazakin down the rise.
The animals engulfed them within minutes. For a heartbeat Graize was back in Anavatan on market day, with great flocks and herds crowding the narrow streets so tightly the people could hardly move around them. He smelled the strong, lanolin scent of warm wool, tasted the dust of the city streets churned up into the air, heard the tinkle of the thousand tiny bells woven into their wool to protect them from the spirits of the wild lands, then a small figure galloped toward them and he recognized the first of his new allies.
Caleb.
Perhaps two years younger than Rayne, with Kursk’s hawk nose and a medium complexion burned brown by the sun, he had one arm tightly wrapped in thin strips of goat hide around two wooden splints, but still managed to guide his pony with ease. Staring openly at Graize, he halted his mount with a flourish just in front of them.
Kursk smiled warmly at him and Graize could see the blood tie stretch between them as it did with Rayne.
“What news, Calebask?”
“Abia’s just returned from the west,” the boy answered eagerly. “She wasn’t too pleased to find you gone, Aba,” he added with a grin.
“My arkados spent the winter with her family,” Kursk remarked to Graize. “Go and tell her I’ve returned,” he replied to Caleb. “And tell her I’ve brought her a new delos, one she didn’t have to go to the trouble of birthing herself.”
Caleb’s black, almond-shaped eyes widened, but after nodding sharply, he wheeled about and galloped for the encampment, raising a great crowd of insects in his wake.
Beside them, Rayne snickered. “He’s not too happy either, Aba,” she noted.
Graize looked at her curiously.
“If you’re Abia’s new delos,” she explained, “then you’re Caleb’s new kardos. New, older kardos.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Oh, no, he’s used to it. There’s four older than him already.”
“How’d he hurt his arm?”
She shrugged. “Showing off. He wanted Danjel to notice him.” She twisted in the saddle to meet his eyes. “You see, it’s not Caleb you have to worry about, Graize, it’s Danjel.”
“Danjel will welcome him as warmly as the rest, Raynziern,” Kursk interrupted in an admonishing tone, urging his pony into a trot to end further discussion.
Behind him, Rayne just shrugged as Graize cast her a curious glance.
Power and freedom, violence and wild potential; the inner life of the Rus-Yuruk washed over him like the tide. Sheep and goats, ponies, dogs, tents and paddocks, riders on guard, and children at play; the outer life followed a heartbeat later. Shaking his head to clear away the spirits that had suddenly clamped themselves about his face, he peered more closely at the encampment.
The paddocks were made of wood and wattle surrounded by perhaps a dozen goat hide tents. Two fire pits, cold now, flanked the entrance to a central clearing, and beyond that, several reed huts which Graize could only assume were for storing wool or drying fish stood by the water. As they cantered forward, people came out to meet them on ponies and on foot, but moved aside for a tall, angular-faced woman Graize recognized from his vision as Rayne’s abia, Ayami. As she came forward, Kursk dismounted and took her in his arms, leaving Graize balanced precariously on the pony’s back. The kazakin leader related their adventure quickly and, when Ayami turned a welcoming smile in his direction, Graize felt an almost violent twist in his chest. She gestured.
“Come down, child, and let me have a look at you.”
Her voice broke against his mind like the waves of the Halic-Salmanak and without thinking, he swung off the pony’s back. Unused to riding for any length of time, his legs were stiff and sore and buckled underneath him as he touched the ground; he would have landed in an undignified heap at her feet if Ozan hadn’t anticipated this and caught him under the arms. Face burning, he glared at the lights for not warning him of this humiliating entrance, but Ayami chose not to notice it. As Rayne eagerly repeated the story of his rescue for all within earshot, she lifted his chin with two fingers, searching his face as her touch sent rivulets of warmth through his body.
“There’s strength in your spirit,” she noted approvingly, “if little in your body just yet. How old are you, child?”
The beetle’s image supplied the answer from the still-foggy depths of his memory.
“Thirteen.”
The gathered Yuruk began to murmur softly, but Graize ignored them, concentrating instead on Ayami’s features as her expression hardened.
“Is this how the Anavatanon care for their children, then?” she asked bluntly. “Leaving them undernourished and alone?”
He could sense that her question was directed more toward the adults standing around them than to him, but he answered anyway, giving a careless shrug. “Only if they die,” he answered harshly.
Her expression softened. “Did your abayon have no kardon to gift you to, then?” she asked.
The lights crowded forward, eager to give him this memory back, but he shook his head. He needed to think clearly right now, such memories would only muddy his heart.
“No.”
Her expression shifted again. “Well, they do now.” Turning, her hand moved from his chin to his shoulder. “Rayne, take your new kardos to ...” she thought a moment, “Ozan’s tent for now,” she said at the man’s nod, “and find him something to eat. Caleb lend him some clothes and Kursk ...”
He smiled. “My love ... ?”
“I need you in our tent. The winter apart has been far too long.”
The gathered grinned openly at this, but Rayne looked up with a frown. “What about Danjel, Abia?”
Ayami’s black, almond-shaped eyes flashed. “Danjel can wait.”
“So who is this Danjel, anyway?” Graize asked around a large piece of cheese drizzled with olive oil and parsley, the food granting him more clarity of thought. “And why do I have to be worried?”
Caleb snickered but Rayne glared at him to be quiet. She’d brought Graize to Ozan’s tent as instructed, shoo ing all but her younger kardos away so that he might eat in peace. Watching him alternate between staring intently at the dead beetle in his hand and stuffing his face was disconcerting, but one or the other seemed to be helping him stay in the present. He was certainly acting more like a child and less like a mad creature plucked from the wild lands now.
“Danjel’s the leader of the kazakin youth,” she explained, holding his gaze firmly locked in her own so his eyes wouldn’t slide away from her words. “He’s training with Timur to be a wyrdin. He’ll be sixteen by the next moon and he’s the best rider and the best fighter of us all.”
“Yeah, and tell him why,” Caleb interrupted, gesturing at Graize with his kinjal.
“You tell him why.”
“He has spirit blood,” the boy supplied promptly.
Graize’s brows drew down while around him the lights dimmed slightly as if they were trying to escape his notice.
“They say he has spirit blood,” Rayne corrected. “He and his abia came out of the Berbat-Dunya when he was three and she died a year later in the attack on Serin-Koy. He’s been our kardos ever since.”
“So why do you think he’s got spirit blood?”
Caleb rolled his eyes. “Because he came out of the Berbat-Dunya,” he said with exaggerated patience. “And because he’s so good at everything, and because he’s a wyrdin and because he’s bi-gender even though he’s living as a male right now.”
“The Yuruk believe the spirits choose a child’s gender and that their blood makes it ... fluid,” Rayne added. “Danjel goes back and forth from male to female whenever he feels like it because he has spirit blood, you see?”
Graize glanced at the gathered spirits hovering just out of reach. “In Anavatan most bi-gender live either as both or as one or the other, but they believe it’s a gift from the Hearth God, not the spirits,” he stated.
Rayne shrugged carelessly. “Spirits, Gods, they’re all the same thing, Graize. It’s only a matter of size.”
Around him both the lights and the spirits suddenly crowded around him, agreeing noisily, and Graize brushed them aside with an impatient snap of his mind. “But why do I have to worry about him?” he persisted, holding tightly to his original question before it slipped out of his thoughts.
“Because if you’re going to go anywhere or fight anywhere on horseback at your age, he’s the only one who’ll be able to teach you to use your spirit blood, or your connection to the spirits, whichever you have,” she answered. “You’re just too old to learn properly any other way.”
Beside her, Caleb nodded. “And you came out of the Berbat-Dunya, too,” he observed, “and you’re a wyrdin ...”
“Already,” Rayne added.
“So he might see you as a challenge.”
“A threat.”
“You’re not that much younger than he is.”
“Graize is a lot smaller, though.”
“Yeah. Hey, that might work in his favor.”
“You mean Danjel might see him as a younger kardos, instead of a threat?”
“Could be. If he played it the right way, kind of vulnerable, you know?”
“Where are you going?”
Both of them stared at Graize as he stood up suddenly and he glanced down at them in annoyance, his eyes perfectly clear for the first time in days.
“For a piss,” he answered caustically. “And for some peace and quiet. You’re like two carrion birds squawking over a corpse and I’m not dead yet.”
“We’re just trying to help,” Caleb grumbled.
“Then help by taking me to him and letting me worry about how to play it. After I go for a piss,” he added.
Rayne stood. “He’ll be waiting for you anyway,” she said. “We shouldn’t put it off any longer.”
“Yeah.” Caleb stood as well, sheathing his kinjal. “And besides,” he added with a grin, all evidence of his earlier pique gone, “I have to piss, too.”
“Figures,” Rayne snorted.
Moments later, trailing a host of lights and spirits like an ethereal dog pack, Graize let Rayne lead him to the far paddocks, feeling rather than seeing the eyes of the Yuruk following after them. A dozen figures waited for them, ranging in age from nine to fifteen and he recognized the tall, black-haired youth with the piercing green eyes and the air of command immediately. Much like Ayami, Danjel listened to Rayne’s recount, then fixed Graize with an unblinking stare.
“So you can’t ride, you can’t shoot, and you can’t herd. What can you do?”
Arms crossed, Danjel waited patiently while Graize considered his answer, his eyes awash with wispy white streaks of prophecy.
What can you do?
What could he do? He stared off into space, feeling his newfound grasp on reality slipping away as he tried to concentrate on the question.
And why did it matter?
Far away, the spirits that had not followed him from the Berbat-Dunya sang a jeering song in his ears.
What could he do?
The lights supplied the answer and he nodded, seeing the future take shape around their words, a future of riders and warriors, raids, battles, and bloodshed all in the name of power.
“I can make a God,” he replied in a faraway voice. “A God that will lead the Yuruk to battle against the Warriors of Estavia and sweep them into the sea.”
The gathered youths straightened at that, but Danjel simply raised an ironic eyebrow.
“How?”
“With an army,” he answered, as the lights continued to spin the future out before him. “The greatest army in a century.”
“An army of Yuruk?”
“Yes.”
The youths glanced at each other as Danjel snorted.
“We haven’t the numbers. And even if we did, you’d never bring us all together under one banner.”
“I couldn‘t, no.”
“So, who could?”
A green-eyed rider, dressed in golden scale mail, flashed before his eyes.
“You.”
“Me?” Danjel asked sarcastically.
“In time.”
“You’re not funny.”
“I’m not trying to be. In time, you’ll lead one of the greatest kazakin in history.” His eyes cleared for just a moment. “They say you have spirit blood; you must have seen this.”
The gathered held their breaths.
“I’ve seen the stream,” Danjel allowed in a faintly menacing tone. “I’ve seen many streams.”
Graize nodded. “No future is certain,” he agreed, ignoring the threat. “But when I said you, I meant all of you.” A sweep of one hand took in the entire settlement. “The Rus-Yuruk.”
“How?”
He looked up as the lights spun about his head like tiny spiders building a vast and complicated web.
“By being the first kazakin to beat the Warriors of Estavia,” he answered.
“Again, how?”
“With my help.” Graize leaned forward, his eyes now shining with a silvery glow, the original icy power that had burned a path through his veins helping him see past the lights to the many futures flowing behind his words that they didn’t want to show him. “You have power, but so do I,” he continued, the words bubbling from his lips in a rush, driven by a sudden gout of images spewing through his mind. “You can speak with the spirits on the plains to find a lost kid or a lost lamb. I can find an army. You know if a storm will give rain or pass by from the way the wind whispers in your mind. I can tell you where it will go and how to make it strike where we want it to. I can see our enemies before they see us, find their weak spots, and know when to attack them. And I know that if we ride against the village of Yildiz-Koy this season, we’ll win. I know it. I’ve seen it and that future is certain if we move fast. The warriors will chase us until the snow covers the northern wild lands in drifts of white clouds, but they won’t catch us and they won’t know why until it’s far too late. As word spreads of our victories, more and more Yuruk will flock to our banner. The Petchans will hear of it and they’ll come down from their mountain keeps to share in the bloodshed. They’ll come from the north sea and the south, every enemy Anavatan has ever made. We’ll build and grow, year by year.”
He froze as a new image suddenly loomed up before him.
“And then he’ll come,” he whispered.
“Who, this God you can build?”
“No, not yet.” Graize turned to stare across the lake at the distant mountains and beyond. “Someone else.” His eyes narrowed as the lights crowded in on him again, fluttering in agitation. “Someone who doesn’t need Gods or temples to give him power. Someone from the north, yes, that’s it, a sorcerer living in a faraway tower on the sea, brewing magics that no one’s ever faced before and building alliances with our enemies, north and south, for just such a time as this.”
“Our enemies?”
Graize blinked. “Anavatan’s enemies for now, but they’ll be our enemies in the future.” He frowned as a golden-haired figure hovered just behind the tower. “Someone who thinks he’s hidden from me,” he continued, “someone who thinks he doesn’t need me, and who thinks he’s found someone better, but he’s wrong. He’ll hear of our victories and, smelling blood and opportunity, he’ll come to offer us his help to crack the walls around the lake of power.”
“Why?”
Graize laughed low in his throat as the lights whispered the answer in a sibilantly sarcastic hiss. “Because he’ll think he’s using us. But we’ll be using him. We’ll see him coming.” He turned a wide, luminescent gaze on Danjel’s face. “We’ve already seen him, you see, but he won’t know that.”
The gathered murmured their appreciation of this strategy, but Danjel held up one hand and they silenced.
“And this God? Will you use It, too?”
Graize watched as the lights paused as if they were holding their collective breaths.
“No,” he answered. “We’ll strike a bargain with It.”
The lights relaxed.
“What kind of bargain?”
Graize shrugged. “The kind that all Gods want.”
“Worship,” Danjel spat.
“Possibly.”
The bi-gender wyrdin snorted. “The Yuruk don’t pledge their worship to anyone or anything. And they don’t shackle their lives to Deities any more than they do to cities or to mad prophets that come out of the wild lands spouting nonsense. If they did, my abia would have ruled the Rus-Yuruk within a year.”
Graize smiled faintly as the others snickered. Around him, the lights pressed against his mind and he used the image of his beetle to shoo them away as one might a cloud of gnats. “Alliance, then,” he amended. “The God is young. It will be satisfied with that for now,” he said, sensing the truth of his words.
“For now?”
Graize shrugged. “When It’s older, It’ll want more. They always do, but so will the Yuruk. And everyone will be haggling from a position of strength by then. But for now, if the Yuruk will ride against Yildiz-Koy, the God will throw Its growing strength behind their cause.”
“With no guarantee of worship?” Danjel pressed. “Again, why?”
Above him the lights froze as if fearing to reveal the answer Graize had already guessed at.
“For the chance to drink from the waters of Gol-Beyaz,” he answered.
Danjel considered it.
“The waters will give It great strength, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Enough to manifest in the physical world?”
“No. That’s not how it’s done.”
“You’ve seen this?”
“I learned it from the priests of Oristo.” Graize raised his head. “Look into my prophecy, delos of the wild lands, and you’ll learn it, too.”
Danjel locked eyes with him at once. For a long time the two of them stared at each other, their eyes as white as the snow on the faraway mountains, while the gathered waited in impatient silence; then, finally, as one, they broke contact.
Graize tipped his head to one side.
“Well?”
Danjel frowned as his eyes returned to their jewellike green tone. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Kardos,” he warned, fingering the pommel of the kinjal at his belt.
“But ... ?”
“But one you just might win with our help. With my help.”
“And will you help me?”
After a moment’s thought, Danjel nodded. “Timur may not believe you and the Yuruk may not follow you, but I’ll help you, if only to bring my own future greatness into being.”
Graize laughed. “Yours and mine, Kardos. Done.” As the others broke out into excited chatter, he tipped his head back, staring into the cloudy sky with a triumphant expression. The game had begun and nothing would break it up early this time, not Havo’s Dance, nor any other God-made catastrophe, not until somebody’s stag beetle was dead.
And this time it wasn’t going to be his.
Above him, the lights grew brighter and brighter with the promise of strength and power. The spirits, however, fluttered nervously about his face, fearing a future that both Graize and the lights chose to ignore; a future where a dark-haired man and a hitherto unseen black-eyed, golden-haired woman could ruin everything with a simple glance, for creation and destruction were still far too intertwined for their comfort. But, with a dismissive wave, Graize swept them away. He would not allow past or future ghosts to interfere with his plans. Not again. Looking past the settlement to the wild lands and beyond, he bared his teeth in the direction of Anavatan.
Never again.
