The Silver Lake (31 page)

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 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.

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.