13
Battle
AS THE SUN ROSE above the eastern peaks of the Degisken-Dag Mountains, the battle for Yildiz-Koy raged across the pasture fields. Filled with the power of Her followers, the God of Battles towered a hundred meters above the village, her twin swords spinning above Her head like wreaths of crackling fire. At Her feet, Kaptin Liel screamed out Her invocation in a voice gone harsh and ragged while the rest of Sable Company directed the power of their kaptin’s words up into the waiting arms of their God. As swarms of spirits hurled themselves upon Her like so many tiny leaches, Estavia sucked up a huge mouthful, then spat the transformed energy at the rest in a great gout of flame. It tore through their midst like a brand, scattering as many as it destroyed and opening a path for Bronze Company who thundered forward to drive the attacking Yuruk toward the first line of waiting infantry. Spears planted in the ground, the rear ranks began to chant Estavia’s name as the enemy met Azure Company with a crash of steel on steel. A hail of arrow fire streaked toward the militia entrenched behind the God-Wall, but with a howl of laughter that bounced off the distant hills, the Battle God reached out to scoop them out of the air in one sweeping motion, crushing them into powder, before hurling them back at the line of Yuruk leaders standing on the crest of the hills.
On the rise, Danjel sent her own defiant scream back at the Battle God as she called up a new swarm of spirits to throw themselves at Her while beside her, Ayami’s high-pitched whistle sent a new wave of Yuruk streaking down the hillsides. They surged forward then split into a dozen lines which streamed around the Battle God like water. Another whistle and those lines split again, some making for walled paddocks, others for the storage sheds, and still more to lure the more heavily armored cavalry away from the supporting infantry. Behind her, Danjel called up another swarm of spirits to obscure their movements and, as Estavia left the village proper to give chase in greedy anticipation, she sent a triumphant thread of power flying toward her fellow wyrdin-kazak on the hills above Serin-Koy
From his vantage point above the village, Graize accepted Danjel’s message with a laugh and, lips drawn back from his teeth in a savage grin, threw a great swarm of his own spirits forward. With no God to stop them, the very first wave had already reached the Wall, hitting it like a storm, but slamming back again just as quickly. They’d begun to batter at it with frantic intensity as more and more of their numbers streamed forward on a tide of rage and need, but as always the Wall held firm. Above him, Graize could feel the Godling growing impatient.
“Soon, very soon,” he promised. “Let the spirits weaken it a little first, then it’ll be your time. And mine.”
Turning, he watched as Kursk brought a fresh wave of Rus and Wes-Yuruk together for another assault against the militia guarding the storage sheds. He could almost feel the defenders bracing to take the hit and he sneered down at them contemptuously. They were so thinly strung out along the God-Wall that they would be vulnerable to any concentrated attack, but with so few fighters remaining in Serin-Koy, they could do little else; pool their defenses in one spot and the Yuruk would simply attack elsewhere; all they could do was dig in and hope that their numbers would hold out longer than their enemies’ numbers. It was the traditional defense against the Yuruk’s traditional wide-sweeping hit-and-run attack, and it usually worked. But not today.
With a snicker, Graize sent another swarm of spirits streaking out before Kursk’s lead banner. Today the Yuruk had numbers to spare and, as soon as the village militia was weakened enough, they would form up into one highly untraditional wedge and smash their way through the defenders at the walled paddocks like a rock slide over a flower garden and one single defender would get the final shock of his very short life. Then he would no longer hover above Graize’s dreams and plans like some dark-eyed storm cloud. Stroking his fingers along his bowstring, the Yuruk’s new wyrdin-kazak gave a mocking salute in Brax’s direction, before gathering up yet another swarm of spirits to throw at Serin-Koy.
Unaware of his old enemy’s presence, Brax set an arrow to his bow and drew it back, trying to remember not to let the string hit his forearm when he released it. With only a few weeks of training he doubted he’d hit anything else that morning, but it hadn’t mattered; the God’s lien sang in his veins so loudly that he could hardly focus enough to aim the weapon anyway. As a new wave of Yuruk charged forward, he fired up and over the paddock wall, then caught up another arrow as they passed. The deadly whistle of returning fire dropped him almost instinctively, but not before a feathered shaft hit the wall above his head with a shower of dust and stone. Eyes narrowed, he snatched it off the ground and, fitting it to his bowstring, rose and fired it back. The sound of a muffled scream made him bare his teeth in derision, and drawn by his aggression, the God’s lien began to rise even higher as, beside him all along the wall, Serin-Koy’s battle-seers began a fresh Invocation to Estavia; calling on the God of Battles to bring them strength as they had since the attack had begun. Brax had no idea how She could manage to support both Yildiz and Serin-Koy, but he was grateful for the responding spike of energy that shot through his body every time they started singing. Early on, the force of Her lien had driven him into the line of entrenched militia, and he could feel a growing fatigue begin to eat away at his reserves; the only thing holding it at bay was Her will. As yet another wave of Yuruk thundered forward, he fitted a new arrow to his bowstring and, as the battle-seers began to scream Estavia’s name once more, he allowed the now familiar surge of energy to lift him to his feet again.
The fighting continued throughout the day. Wave after wave of Yuruk riders charged the village of Serin-Koy and, by noon, hand-to-hand fighting had broken out all along the God-Wall. Despite the battle-seers’ efforts, gaps began to appear in the lines as, hopelessly outnumbered, the defenders began to crumble. As the sun dipped toward the western mountains, the Yuruk finally broke the line at the storage sheds. Villagers scattered before a full banner of torch-carrying riders that surged over the wall, cutting down anyone who stood against them. Exhausted militia hurried to close the breach, but it was too late; one by one, the buildings went up in flames.
On the rise, Graize gave the signal and standing in the saddle, Rayne swept her yak’s tail standard up in a great arc, calling the banners of the Khes-Yuruk waiting in reserve forward into battle. As they thundered over the hills, whistles sounded across the field, and the engaged kazakin of the Rus, Wes, and Irmak-Yuruk now flowed together to form one solid wedge that drove itself toward the paddocks and the thin line of militia guarding the herds of frightened livestock. The heavy wooden gates held for less then a moment, then splintered inward and the kazakin surged inside, some making straight for the defenders, while others began to drive the flocks and herds out into the fields.
Long out of arrows, Brax hurled a fist-sized rock at the head of the rider barreling down on him, then snatched up his sword and vaulted onto the wall. The man swung a huge, curved blade toward him and Brax ducked instinctively, nearly toppling over backward as the weapon whistled over his head. He struck back and missed and then the enemy’s blade was streaking toward him again, moving unbelievably fast. He barely got his own sword, two-handed, up in time. As the weapons connected with a clash of steel, he felt the God-strength within his arms hold fast and then the man gave a wrenching twist and Brax’s left elbow twisted with it. He heard a crack, felt a shock of pain shoot up his arm, then, as his sword went spinning off, he fell, hitting the ground beyond the wall so hard it knocked the air out of his lungs.
Graize saw him fall and, standing in the saddle, he sent a scream of triumph into the air. His enemy was down and the Gods’ ancient defense lay writhing and shrieking in his newly awakened sight like a mortally wounded snake. It was time to chop both their heads off. Now. Raising his arms, he summoned the Godling to him.
It streaked from the clouds above with all the speed and power of a blazing comet, trailing a legion of spirits behind it in a trail of silvery fire. Graize allowed It to flow around him and through him, filling him with an icy cold power that nearly froze his breath in his body, then Godling and wyrdin together raced toward Yildiz-Koy. When they reached the pasture fields, they kept going, scattering the remaining defenses as they went, aiming for the single figure staggering to his feet before the wall.
On the battlements of Orzin-Hisar, the smell of burning wood and wool drew Spar to his feet. Holding the wall like a vise, he watched Brax’s death hurtle toward him. He felt numb and heavy, unable to think or even feel. The tower voice had done its damage and gone, leaving him wide open to a constant barrage of images that battered against his mind like a whirlwind.
Brax standing in the center of a broiling sea of blood-flecked mist.
A hundred sharp-clawed creatures of power and need.
A rolling tide of mist and death.
Burning.
And something flickering past the lamps.
Something.
Above him, the sky darkened perceptibly as a new power streaked from the clouds toward Orzin-Hisar. It filled his mind with a screaming howl of hunger and his legs gave out from under him as blood began to trickle from his nose and ears. He fell against the battlements to lie, staring upward, unable to look away, as the vision played out in front of his eyes gone a pale, misty white.
The power enveloped Brax in a swirling mass of silvery teeth and claws. In its midst, Spar saw Graize ready his bow; as he fired, a legion of spirits swarmed in to catch the spray of blood that shot out to cover the setting sun in a veil of golden fire. The power caught Brax in an icy embrace, newly formed teeth tearing frantically at Estavia’s protections. Screaming in fury, pain forgotten, Brax fought them both with all the strength and rage his fourteen years on the streets of Anavatan could summon, but as his body weakened, the juvenile wards on his arms and chest faded.
And Spar began to cry, knowing that this time he couldn’t save the older boy, feeling as if everything since Cindar’s death had been leading up to this one final moment when he would be left all alone. Deep within his blistered mind, he felt the tower voice rise up again and, with a gesture of almost gentle triumph, draw back a curtain of darkness to reveal a fine, silver light that undulated in the distance.
No longer caring what it wanted in return, Spar closed his eyes, and reached for it.
And paused as a hand touched his. Opening his eyes, he stared up at a blank-faced man sitting propped up against the battlements, iron-braced legs splayed out before him, a heavyset youth with Bayard’s features lending him a shoulder for support. He seemed somehow familiar and Spar frowned as Kemal’s words filtered down to him from far away.
“... served as Serin-Koy’s leading battle-seer and priest of Estavia until he took a head wound in a Yuruk attack two seasons ago.”
A blank-faced man sending Spar’s mind flying toward the shining net of Elif’s prophetic Sight ...
The name came slowly.
“Chian?”
The corners of the man’s dull eyes crinkled in response. With a featherlight touch, his mind reached out to still the flood of images, then brought one single vision forward.
As the creatures closed over Brax’s head, he managed one choked-off cry for help. His call shot through the mist like a blazing arrow and, drawn by the violence of his desperation, ESTAVIA LEAPED FORWARD.
Recognizing his purpose, Spar shook his head, jerking up the rest of the vision and almost throwing it at him.
Only to have him disappear before She could reach him.
With a dismissive mental shrug, Chian played the final unseen image out before them like a skein of wool.
Estavia reaching out into darkness for the one man able to save the future: Kemal.
And Spar’s clouded eyes suddenly brightened with hope as their abayos’ words echoed in his mind.
“I took some injuries last night conducting a ritual to manifest the God of Battles.”
A surge of new energy drew him to his feet and he nodded excitedly. Kemal had called up Estavia that night to save them from the spirits on Liman Caddesi.
“She favors the combative ones.”
Kemal could get Her here to Serin-Koy and, once here, She would save Brax.
Below him, Graize swept his sword down again, the image of the streets of Anavatan shimmered into being, Brax cried out, his call shooting through the mist like a blazing arrow as it had that very first night, and Spar and Chian joined their minds together to hurl their co-joined abilities out with all their strength to amplify his past and present desperation.
“Save us, God of Battles, and I will pledge you my life, my worship AND MY LAST DROP OF BLOOD, FOREVER!”
The pure force of his belief hurtled along the streams of possibility, slamming into Kemal’s mind with all the power of a hurricane. It ricocheted off the Battle God’s lien within him, then, sucking up enough energy from every warrior on the field to stagger them, it blazed across the sky.
Estavia froze in mid-strike, Her feral visage snapping to the south as She saw what it revealed: the village of Serin-Koy on fire, its militia dead or overrun, and Brax, Her Champion, unarmored and unprotected, fighting a savage creature of power and need that hammered against Her wards.
Against Her wards.
With a scream of rage that deafened every person on the field, the Battle God exploded out of being, the shock wave flattening half the fishing huts on the western shores of Gol-Beyaz.
Her appearance at Serin-Koy was no less violent. One moment Brax was striking out, one-handed, at a spirit a thousand times more powerful than those he’d faced on Liman-Caddesi; the next It was swept away and he was catapulted into the air, every limb outlined in fire, as Estavia’s presence slammed into him, stripping away all his pain and fatigue in a single blow. Brax gave himself up to it as the now-familiar figure of Kaptin Haldin rose up to encase him in golden light, the gem-encrusted weapon from his dream appeared in his hand, and once again he stood on a flat, featureless plain surrounded by creatures of mist and claws. Once again, he fought them with the same ferocity and unwavering belief in his own invincibility and Hers, and once again they shredded before the power of a God.
And then he saw Graize.
The other boy appeared out of the mist like a wraith, his eyes gone white and wild, a legion of fresh creatures swarming about his head. He spat a curse at Brax so powerful it smacked against Estavia’s protections, and then he was galloping toward him, a curved Yuruk saber in his hand. Brax raised his own weapon and when they met, there was an explosion of energy that sent them both flying. Brax was the first to rise, the power of Estavia driving him to his feet; Graize lay stunned for half a heartbeat longer and then he, too, was up and hurtling toward his enemy.
They met with another crash of steel and power. Brax bore down, forcing Graize toward the ground, his lips drawn back from his teeth in a feral grimace. The other boy snarled back at him in unbridled hatred, then screamed out a single word.
Atop Orzin-Hisar, Spar looked up to see the power become a savage-clawed creature of rage and hunger streaking from the clouds above. He stood frozen for an instant, the memory of Liman-Caddesi catching his breath in his throat, but then, as Chian’s mind wrapped about his in a mantle of strength, he flung their combined power out like a sling, spinning it into a great net of darkness to entangle the creature in mid-strike.
Shrieking in fury, It tore at the net’s black strands while, from the ground, Graize surged upward, knocking Brax away with one blow. He gave a piercing whistle, and just as Estavia turned to face this new threat, a whirlwind of spirits spewed forward to obscure Its presence. She waded into their midst, shredding as many as She sucked in and showering Brax and Graize with their tattered, half-physical bodies. Spar and Chian held their ground against the creature as It twisted about to batter at their minds while Graize sent a hail of tiny spirits against them like a cloud of gnats. Chian’s already weakened abilities began to buckle. The creature renewed its attack, jerking just enough of its sinuous body from the net to sink its half-formed teeth into Chian’s cheek. The former battle-seer faltered, but as a spray of blood caught Spar across the face, his eyes snapped open almost unbearably wide and he saw the past.
The shining waters of Gol-Beyaz began to churn as the lake dwellers’ prayers for prosperity and power formed a dual future of creation and destruction. Across the wild lands a host of spirits driven by the rage and pain of a latent seer came together as one, and within the lake of power Incasa formed a vision to mold a God: an unformed child of power and potential born under the cover of Havo’s Dance. Spar saw his own part in Its birthing, saw what might become his own part in Its fate and then, as Chian’s strength began to fail, he saw behind the battle-seer, a single, shining path leading down into a darkness so total it froze his bones to look at it. Together, he and the creature stared into its depths, watching as a shimmering black tower began to take form, and together they felt Incasa’s sudden consternation as He, too, saw this new, dark future. He raised His dice, and then a white-eyed man standing in the window of a tall, red tower rose up between them.
For a heartbeat, he and Spar stared across the waters at each other. The man beckoned, but mesmerized by the darkness, Spar turned away and the man held up a marble figurine of a mounted seer in sarcastic salute before turning to send a spike of warning across the sea so hard it slapped against Spar’s mind with a crack as it flew past.
Below the wall, Graize’s uneven pupils snapped open at the contact. For a moment it seemed unfamiliar and then he recognized the mind of the northern sorcerer. He almost refused to heed his warning, but as the man stripped away the mist around the streams to show him what would occur if the God of Prophecy took hold of his new Godling, he gave a reluctant whistle to call off Its attack. Caught up in Spar’s visioning, It resisted at first, then turned, trailing a line of crimson blood and ebony power behind It, and shot through Spar’s now-ragged net to lose Itself in the clouds.
As Brax surged to his feet to renew his attack, Graize turned and ran for his mount as well. The battle was won, dozens of sheep and cattle were taken, and the village was burning. It was enough. Holding the Godling’s presence in his mind, he gave the signal and the Yuruk wheeled about and galloped back to the western hills behind him.
At Yildiz-Koy, Danjel felt Graize break off the attack. She gave a long, undulating whistle to call her own kazakin back from the God-Wall, then turned and vanished behind the hills. As Bronze Company gave chase, the infantry slowly lowered their arms. There was silence on the field.
Pressing two fingers against the bridge of his nose to stem the trickle of blood caused by Spar and Chian’s violent contact, Kemal glanced up as Yashar pushed his way through the milling militia to his side.
“It was a feint,” the older man said bluntly.
“I know.”
“Why didn’t they know? Why didn’t Sable Company see it?”
Kemal just shook his head.
“They should have seen it,” the older man insisted. “Then we never would have ...” His deep voice broke over the words. “We thought they’d be safe, Kem, and we left them there all alone.”
“I know.” Handing his helmet to Duwan, Kemal stripped off his cuirass and dropped it to the ground. “Come on,” he said darkly. “We have to find out what happened and then we have to get back there.”
With Cyan Company falling in immediately behind them, the two men ran in search of Kaptin Liel.
On the field of Serin-Koy, Her expression as sated and sleepy as a well-fed house cat, Estavia watched the Yuruk retreat, then reached down to draw Her fingers through Her young Champion’s dust-and-sweat-encrusted hair, before slowly disappearing.
Brax stood watching Her pass with a dazed expression, but as the golden presence of Kaptin Haldin gradually faded along with Her, he gave a long, shuddering breath and sank to his knees, one hand pressed tightly around his wounded arm.
On the battlements, Chian drew Spar’s mind up from the depths of Gol-Beyaz with his final breath before the wake of the Battle God’s passing burned his own mind to ashes. Spar’s eyes slowly returning from white to blue, the young seer stared up at the place where the Godling had disappeared, his expression blank and shocked then, with one hand clasped around Jaq’s neck and the other holding a dead man’s hand, he deliberately closed his eyes, allowing his mind to drift back down to the edge of the dark place where Chian had dwelt for so long.
At Cvet Tower, Illan Volinsk laid one finger atop Spar’s figurine before very gently pushing it over on its side with an expresion of genuine regret. For a moment, he considered removing it from the board entirely, but then shook his head. The streams had become so muddy at this point that the boy might just survive with enough of his abilities left intact to influence the newly formed God of Creation and Destruction. Spar had the potential to affect the streams of possibilities and that potential had not been completely destroyed. Incasa had seen it, too, and despite the very real danger to His power base, Incasa might still have a use for Spar, as damaged as he was; the oldest of the Lake Deities was a greedy old bastard after all. Like all gamblers, the God of Chance liked to hedge His own bets and Graize wouldn’t be nearly enough insurance for Him.
“Any more than he would be for me,” Illan mused aloud. Spar might never trust him now, but that possibility hadn’t been completely destroyed either. It was something to consider as the game progressed.
As was the new possibility of gaining Graize’s trust, his thoughts continued. His acceptance of Illan’s aid on the battlefield of Serin-Koy was encouraging. Lifting the young wyrdin’s figurine from Serin-Koy, he set it back in its place beside Gol-Bardak. However unstable, the boy had, nonetheless, done very well in his first engagement. He’d remained focused on one clear and simple vision, had advanced toward it along the cleanest stream possible, and achieved his goals: the Yuruk now believed in his prophetic and leadership abilities and the Godling was well on Its way to a controlled, physical awakening outside the influence of the Gol-Beyaz Deities. Illan would soon need to have a new figurine created.
Casting his gaze across the board, Illan nodded in satisfaction. The streams were progressing exactly as he had foreseen. Estavia’s battle seers had been easily herded from the south to the west like a flock of sheep driven from summer to winter pasture with their warriors obediently following along behind like so many sheepdogs. Now it was time to herd them back again as the mysterious ships sighted in the Deniz-Hadi inlet that spring were about to enter the game. He’d dreamed of them and their very special passenger that night.
Reaching below the atlas table, he retrieved a polished olive wood box before turning toward the sound of footsteps. His eyes cleared as Sergeant Ysav entered the room.
“You sent for me, sir?” the older man asked.
Illan inclined his head. “A ship from Skiros will be arriving within the hour, Vyns. Take an honor guard to receive it and return with the envoy and his retinue at once.”
“Sir.”
“They’ll be dressed as Ithosian merchants,” Illan continued, setting the box carefully on the table. “But don’t treat them as such,” he cautioned. “The envoy’s a powerful general and cousin to King Pyrros who’s conquered much of the southwest coastline of the Deniz-Hadi Sea in the last two years. You’ll remember him: Memnos of Taurus.”
“I do, sir. He fought with your ducal father for three years against Rostov. Part of his martial training as I recall.”
“Yes.” Illan’s expression warmed. “He taught Dagn and me to sail in the southern manner when I was five.”
“I remember, sir,” Ysav groused. “I nearly drowned that summer. So did you.”
“Nonsense, neither of us were in any danger.” Illan turned. “He’ll be traveling with a bodyguard of half a dozen soldiers and one formidable seer; you’ll know her by her eyes.” His own paled slightly. “They’ll be unusually dark, unlike those of the northern seers, Vyns. Do not meet her gaze. Stronger men than you have lost themselves in the power of her abilities.”
“I’ll remember that, sir.”
“Have the second level made up with the southern-facing bedroom for the seer and the northern for the envoy. The main storage room will need to be cleared for the guard and the smaller made up as a private dining room.”
“And the ship, sir? Will it need to reprovender?”
“Likely. Offer whatever fresh water and stores they require for the return voyage. I don’t imagine they’ll wish to sail on to the capital when their business is complete. They’ll not want to waste the fighting season any more than I do.”
The sergeant glanced up with an expectant expression and Illan chuckled. “Yes, Vyns. The game is moving swiftly. We may be sailing against Anavatan sooner than you think.”
“My lord?” The man’s countenance brightened at once.
“Yes, so treat the envoy well. He’s the key to Volinski mobilization.”
“I will, sir.”
As the sergeant left to carry out his orders, a new spring in his step, Illan opened the box’s delicately wrought golden lid and drew the first of a dozen intricately carved single-masted warships from their velvet settings. He placed each one in a circle around the figurine of Anahtar-Hisar, then lifted a small figure beautifully wrought in gold before closing the box with a satisfied expression. The game was moving very swifly indeed.
As he had predicted, the envoy from the southern maritime realm of Skiros arrived within the hour. Illan met them in the small private audience hall on the first floor, coming forward smoothly to embrace the heavyset older man who strode into the room well ahead of three others.
“Memnos,” he said with genuine warmth in his voice.
The man returned the embrace, then held him at arm’s length for a moment before smiling in return. “Prince Illan. You look well.”
“As do you. It’s been a long time.”
“Too long. I was sorry to hear of your father’s death.”
“Thank you. We received your mourning gift, and King Pyrros‘. It was generous of His Majesty.”
“He remembers his friends, as your father did.”
“Indeed. And I hear‘you’ve become a father yourself.”
“I have, with a brood of four already. This is my eldest, Viktor.”
Illan inclined his head as the youth standing just behind Memnos’ right shoulder bowed. “A Volinski name, Memnos?” he asked.
“To honor the man who treated me as a son so many years ago.” Memnos now gestured an older man forward. “This is my cousin Hares.”
“Ah, the famous mapmaker,” Illan said with a smile. “Your reputation for accuracy and beauty precedes you even across the northern sea.”
Hares bowed. “You’re too kind, Highness.”
“And,” Memnos continued, “may I introduce you to Panos.”
The figure from last night’s dream now stepped forward. She was dressed as an Ithosian sailor, but her eyes were as black as onyx, giving her thin face a mysterious, otherworldly cast. Illan met her deep, swirling gaze with a guarded one of his own, but it was her hair, as bright as spun gold beneath her plain woolen cap, that drew his attention. It was said that only Pyrros of Skiros threw children with hair the color of the summer sun, but only a fool would point that out as King Pyrros of Skiros was, as yet, unmarried—a ploy to keep his allies hoping to make a political match with him. Illan bowed politely as one would to an equal, taking in her measure as she took in his.
“Be welcome in my home, Panos,” he said formally. “No door shall be closed to you if you desire it to be opened.”
She smiled suddenly, the years falling away to reveal a youth of seventeen or eighteen at best. “Thank you, Highness. I may avail you of that offer. I’ve heard a great deal about the prophetic gifts of the Volinski seers,” she said, moving her gaze languidly up the length of his body.
“And I those of the Skirosian oracles,” he replied.
“And I,” Memnos interrupted pointedly, “have heard a great deal about the skill of the Volinski vintners, but I’ve yet to see any evidence of it.”
Illan laughed. “My apologies. Come, sit, eat, drink, and rest from your long voyage.”
An hour later, when his guests had eaten their fill, Illan sat back, turning a wineglass between his finger and thumb, watching as it caught the last of the evening sun in its crystal depths. “I trust your journey was uneventful,” he observed.
Memnos shrugged. “The trip across the Deniz-Siyah was as cold and damp as I remembered it to be. Gol-Beyaz was warmer, however, and more interesting. The villages have grown prosperous in the years since I passed them last.”
“Prosperous,” Illan agreed, “and complacent.”
“They look to have good reason. Anahtar-Hisar was an impressive sight, very large and very tall, but the three towers at the mouth of Anavatan’s strait, now those are truly a work of military prowess. I was sad that Viktor and Panos did not get to witness the fabled chains of Oristo. When were they last laid across the waters, in your great-grandmother’s time, wasn’t it?”
Illan nodded. “Ivagn Volinsk was a pirate at heart. She raided the coastlines of the Deniz-Siyah for much of her reign. The fleet she took up the Bogazi-Isik strait was the largest of its time.”
“They say she brought a piece of Siya-Hisar home with her,” Hares noted.
“Yes. It’s housed with the ducal regalia in the capital.”
“I’d love to see it someday.”
“I should be only too happy to show it to you. Any season but this one, of course.”
“And on that note,” Memnos said, straightening in his chair. “I’ve brought you a gift.” He gestured and Viktor passed him a long, leather case tied with a silken ribbon. Inside was a creamy-smooth vellum map finely drawn with colored inks and gold and silver embossment. “The Deniz-Hadi,” he said with real pride as the two youths held it up to the light. “Made by Hares, of course.” He gestured at the other man who smiled diffidently.
“It’s beautiful,” Illan breathed. “I’m particularly impressed with the areas outlined in red. The coastal holdings of the Skirosians?”
“Obviously,” Memnos grunted. “As you can see, we now control the bulk of the western shore, and all of the southwestern islands. Pyrros is ready to move on Thasos and Ithos next season, but this, as you know, will alert the Gol-Yearli and their Warriors of Estavia to our growing military strength.”
“Yes,” Illan agreed. “They might even respond in force if Thasos called for aid; they’ve been trading allies for many years.”
Memnos gave an elegant shrug. “They might,” he allowed, “but they’re a walled people with a walled people’s mentality.”
“And Skiros?”
“We’re a maritime people.”
“The Gol-Yearli have a marine force.”
“They have a lake force; it’s not the same thing.”
“So you don’t assume they’ll be any threat to your designs on Thasos and Ithos?”
“None at all.” Memnos sat back. “Especially if the Volinski are as prepared to throw their support behind us as I’ve been given to understand that you are.”
“We are.” Illan bent toward the map. “The duc would like nothing better than to come to the aid of the man who once tried to drown his overly-ambitious little brother.”
“He could try to drown mine,” Memnos suggested absently. “He’s more ambitious than you and much less useful. All he can do is lead troops.”
Illan laughed politely. “In the meantime,” he said, returning his attention to the new map, “I’ve been in negotiation with the Petchans of the Gurney-Dag Mountains,” he said pointing to the area just northeast of the Deniz-Hadi. “For a price—which I’ve already paid—they’ll cease their raids on the southern villages this season so that the Warriors of Estavia will keep their focus north where the Yuruk nomads have been testing the skills of a new military leader. The Battle God’s people have already drawn the bulk of their fighting force away from the southern towers, so you’ll have no trouble from that quarter if you move quickly. Thasos and Ithos may call for aid, but the Gol-Yearli will be too busy to answer with anything more than foodstuffs this season.”
“And their oracles?” Panos asked. “They won’t see through this strategy?”
Illan smiled. “Their oracles will be all too occupied with other business this season. Will you have another glass of wine?”
She smiled back at him, her black eyes sparkling in response to his obvious challenge. “Yes, thank you, I will.”
Later, after the men had retired, Illan found Panos where he’d expected to, standing on the rocky shore beneath Cvet Tower, staring out at the waves and listening to the faint sounds of merriment coming from the ship at anchor beyond the point. She’d removed her cap, allowing her hair to spill out across her shoulders like a golden mane. They said nothing for a long time until, finally, Illan glanced over at her.
“And how did you find the journey, Oracle?” he asked formally.
She turned her dark, fathomless eyes on his face.
“Gol-Beyaz tingled,” she answered. “I could feel it singing in my mind.”
“What did it say?”
“Come and lose yourself in my embrace, and be one with the Gods.”
“Naturally you did not obey it.”
“Naturally. But I was tempted. It sang so sweetly, and the song was so familiar, like honey on my tongue, once tasted, never forgotten.”
“I’m not surprised. They say the Oracles of Skiros are the children of the Gods,” he noted.
She shrugged. “I’m from Amatus.”
“That’s far to the east. Pyrros has a long reach these days.”
She gave him a shrewd glance but made no answer. “I felt a lot of activity beneath the waves,” she noted after a time. “Its marble floor was alive with music and dancing. Is it always so energetic?”
“These are unusual times.”
“How so?”
“The Lake Deities have birthed another of their number.”
“Ah, yes, my little sand swimmer.” She turned, her golden hair spilling across her shoulders. “I’ve brought you a gift, my tall tower prophet,” she said. “Would you like it now?” Her black eyes were teasing, but before he could respond, she pressed an oilcloth-wrapped object into his hands.
Opening it, he marveled at the small marble sea turtle. “It’s beautiful,” he said.
“It’s for your prophecy, so that you might keep an eye on your new God. They can be tricky, you know... Gods.”
“Yes.” He met her gaze deliberately, feeling the heat of her regard wrap about his mind like a balm. “But It will not be so easy to mold to Their desires as they imagine.”
She stepped closer, lifting her face to his. “And why is that?” she asked.
“There are other desires at work.”
Her laughter fell about him like raindrops in the moonlight. “Desires such as yours?” she asked.
Reaching out, he ran his fingers through her hair, marveling at how vibrant and alive each individual strand became under his touch. “Yes, mine,” he answered, “and others. Perhaps yours.”
“Perhaps,” she allowed. “But mine involve the southern sea. What possible interest might I have in more northerly climes?”
“Wouldn’t you like to swim in the waters of Gol-Beyaz without fear of losing yourself in its embrace? To see if you might draw up some of its legendary power to aid in the working of your own will? With Anavatan in ruins and the Gods sorely weakened, this is entirely possible.”
“The thought of losing myself in any embrace is no fear,” she breathed. “It’s a heady challenge, like a deep, dark wine. But won’t these Gods have seers and oracles of Their own in place to prevent this very thing?”
“Of course. But of the two most dangerous, one is old and one is young. Little match for the two of us together.”
“And the rest?”
“Are of no consequence.”
“I see.” She smiled demurely up at him. “And what would I have to do for this delicious little swim,” she purred.
“Perhaps the swim itself would be payment enough,” he answered, “if it occurred at just the right time to suit us both.”
“And how would you ensure that it was?”
“Well, I would have to study the matter... intimately,” he answered.
He leaned down to kiss her and she met his lips with a smile.
“Mm. I like a man who studies his subject,” she murmured. “The more intimately the better.” Taking his hand, she led him back to the tower.
Standing discreetly in the window above them, Hares accepted the gold coin Memnos ruefully handed him. Panos had a great many more weapons than just her eyes, he mused, as Prince Illan of Volinsk was about to discover.
