The Silver Lake (39 page)

“Yes, sir.”

Two hours later, Princess Dagn Vanyiviz Volinsk stood by the fire, turning a glass of heavy red wine between finger and thumb while rivulets of water ran down her boots to pool on the flagstone floor. Four years older than lllan, she was similar in height and build, but with paler hair and eyes and a confident intensity that stood out in marked contrast to his carefully designed air of aesthetic disinterest. They’d once been close, but the war and the increasing demands of his prophetic sight had sent them to opposite sides of the country: Dagn to the fighting in the west, and Illan to the calm, focusing isolation of Cvet Tower. Both social and extroverted, Dagn had never understood her brother’s need for solitude and had often accused him of removing himself from court on purpose so that Bryv was forced to seek his council like a petitioner.

And she was most probably right.

Now, she caught him in an impatient stare.

“Will one big push prevail against Rostov this season ?” she demanded with characteristic bluntness. Standing in his usual place by the window, Illan made a show of rubbing two fingers along the bridge of his nose in mock resignation. One big push had never finished either of them, but both sides always believed it would.

“No,” he replied just as bluntly.

“Why not?”

“Because Rostov’s no less powerful than they were last season and now they’re drawing allies from the west.”

“So? We’re drawing allies from the east.”

“Then our individual strengths will be equally balanced. Again.”

Dagn’s blue eyes glittered in the firelight.

“So what
will
tip this balance to our favor? What will
finish
Rostov?”

He made a show of considering the question seriously, but inside he was bored.

He was careful to keep any sign of this opinion from showing on his face. Only the riches of Anavatan could tip any form of balance in anyone’s favor, but to obtain them, they had to be subtle and they had to be patient.

His family were not known for either.

“We could assassinate Cousin Halv,” he replied, more as a stalling technique than an actual suggestion, but Dagn snickered.

“It’s been tried,” she answered, her own features relaxing slightly. “He has as many swords and seers protecting him as Bryv does.” She paused. “Why? Have you seen something that might suggest it would be more successful this time?”

He sighed, weary of this line of questioning already; if he’d seen it, he would have said so at the beginning of their conversation. He considered the possibilities in saying yes, but then discarded the idea. Lying about prophecy carried its own weight of complications and—as tempting as it was—it actually muddied true visioning and undermined a seer’s credibility.

“No,” he replied, a note of testiness creeping into his voice. “So, short of a plague or a famine—which I have not seen, so don’t even bother to ask—there’s nothing to suggest that this year’s campaign will be any different from last year’s.”

“So, basically, you’ve got nothing of importance to say to me at all.”

“Basically, that’s correct.”

“Then what good are you?”

Illan smiled tightly. “In the short term, none. In the long term, perhaps a great deal.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve forgotten. Your plots against Anavatan.”

He was surprised by the sneer in her voice.

“You don’t feel the shining city is a worthy prize?” he asked.

She grimaced in exasperation. “I think it’s a risky and expensive dream that rears its ugly head above. us once every few generations or so like a family malady.”

“Unlike Rostov, of course.”

“Don’t go down that path again, Illan,” she warned. “Rostov is a dangerous foe that must be defeated before we can turn any military attention elsewhere.”

“I agree.”

She frowned at him. “Then why do you keep this conquest of Anavatan alive in Bryv’s mind?” she demanded, her voice dark with suspicion.

“Because it’s a risky and expensive dream
now.
But it’s a reachable reality in the future—in the
near
future. I
have
seen that.”

“But not this season?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because they’re still too strong.”

“You’ve told Bryv this?”

“His military advisers have told him this. You may tell him, however, that the Yuruk of the western plains are nurturing a new leader which could unite the wild lands to our advantage.”

“Could?”

He shrugged. “When you sow a field of grain in the spring, you can only hope that it will yield a good harvest in the fall. It
could,
and the best you can optimistically say is that it
should,
but there are always variables.”

“Like a plague or a famine?” Her tone was sarcastic, but her voice had lost its suspicious edge and he smiled.

“Or a flood, or a drought, or even something as simple as a clash of personalities. We’ll know before the year is out. The Yuruk’s new prophet is planning a small foray against the village of Yildiz-Koy to test his leadership skills. If all goes smoothly, in a year or two the Yuruk will be strong enough to attack the western shores of Gol-Beyaz in force while the Petchans attack the south and we attack the north.”

“And if all doesn’t go smoothly?”

“I have another field in reserve that could yield a similar harvest if properly sowed.”

“Which is?”

“Too early to say. Its crop might blight; it’s still a very young field.”

Dagn shook her head, impatient with the agricultural analogy. “So your counsel is to wait, then?”

He shrugged. “Bryv could send some privateers to harass the Anavatanon merchant ships in the Deniz-Siyah if that suits him better. Two would be sufficient, I’d think. Their navy will be expecting something like that, and it won’t raise suspicions of a plot elsewhere. They’ll send a few extra ships to patrol the shipping lanes, but not too many due to this
new threat
brewing in the south.”

She chuckled at his sarcastic tone. “Ah, yes, I’ve forgotten, those strange,
unidentified
ships hovering off the coast.”

“Yes.”

“Give my regards to Memnos when you write to him next. Tell him that the duc of Volinsk is ready to commit troops to his cause at a moment’s notice. Bryv’s very words.”

“I shall.”

Sipping at her wine, she smiled nostalgically. “Do you remember the summer we spent sailing with him off the island of Skiros?”

“I do.”

“It was so warm and peaceful then. There was nothing to worry about, no wars, no intrigue.”

“Do you miss it?”

“I do, sometimes.” She chuckled. “You were nothing more than a self-centered brat back then.”

“And you were nothing more than a bossy know-it-all. And Bryv?”

“Bryv.” Dagn’s expression grew sad. “Bryv laughed more.”

“So did you.”

She shrugged. “I suppose.

An almost comfortable silence fell between them and Illan glanced over.

“Will you be spending the night?” he asked, as surprised by the warmth in his own tone as he was by the question he already knew the answer to. He could see her considering it, remembering closer times when they were younger, wondering if those times might be recreated, their friendship rebuilt, by one long, quiet talk before the fire. For a moment he thought he might have seen it wrong, and then she shook her head with an expression of genuine disappointment and the faint prophetic stream that had warmed his thoughts for just a moment faded.

“No, I have to get back.”

“Another time, then.”

“Perhaps.”

An hour later, watching her lead the envoy back along the coastal road, he was again surprised to find that he shared her disappointment.

But unlikely.

He turned back to the atlas table. Another time, perhaps, but not now; there was still too much to do now. Something portentous was happening and he needed all his concentration to detect its most vulnerable aspect. Spar was the key. Lifting the boy’s figurine to eye level, he stared at it until the room slowly faded from his sight, then sent his mind speeding south toward Anahtar-Hisar. The tall granite tower standing high above the bright blue waters of the southern sea filled his vision, then began to waver precariously as another image rose up beneath it.

He frowned.

With an impatient sigh, he returned Spar to the table and lifted the well-worn figure of his sister from its permanent position amidst the crowded border garrisons, searching for some subtle, prophetic warning that would keep their conversation in the foreground but, after finding only regret for lost opportunity, firmly set it back in place. There was still too much to do now, he repeated. His relationship with Dagn could wait. They had time. They always had time.

Lifting Spar once again, he bore down, calling up the image of Anavatan’s southernmost stronghold and its newest charge. His vision steadied and Spar came into focus, crouched like a tiny gargoyle on the turreted roof of Anahtar-Hisar, his blue-eyed gaze as faraway as Illan’s own. The Volinski seer nodded to himself. Most latent prophets were solitary by nature, unconsciously seeking out the high and lonely places where their abilities could grow without the distractions of everyday life swirling about and cluttering up their thoughts. When they were ready to see, their minds took flight like birds leaving the nest. And Spar’s mind was almost ready; he could feel it from here. They’d been interacting carefully over the last two weeks and Illan could feel the link between them growing stronger and more solid with each passing day. It only needed the smallest—most enjoyable, he allowed—kick in the tail feathers now to make Spar’s abilities take wing. Holding the boy’s figurine up to eye level, Illan reached out to deliver it.

“Shield arm up! Right leg back to support the body! Now, sword arm out, thrust and back! Always pull back, ready for your next attack!”

Crouched on the roof above the private officers’ training yard, Spar watched as Yashar went over the first strike position with Brax for the twentieth time. They’d been at it most of the morning and Spar could feel the older boy’s frustration growing.

“Again! And again! Slowly, Brax, slowly!”

“I
am
going slowly!”

“Go
more
slowly!”

“If I go any
more
slowly, I’ll fall over!”

“Then
fall
over! You have to learn control; control always comes before power and always, always, before speed!”

From the tense set of his shoulders, Spar could see that Yashar’s patience was wearing as thin as Brax’s. One of them was going to- blow any minute, he thought with a snort, although they’d lasted a lot longer than he’d expected.