Last of the Wilds

by Trudi Canavan

  “You have intelligence. I like the way you think. You can keep to protocol, and speak other languages. You’ll do well. There is one obstacle, however. You must appear to earn the position. Few here witnessed your part in the army’s escape from the mines, or know how much they owe you. Those who remained here during the war do not feel your act justifies changing a rule that has been accepted for so long that it is almost a law.”

  Though her heart was racing and her insides felt as if they had dropped somewhere below her feet, Reivan managed to nod. “Servants must be Skilled.”

  “Don’t be disheartened. More here are willing to give you a chance than not, and not just because I wish it to be so. They will not protest if I take you to rituals and seek your advice, just as I would a Companion, but to make it official this soon…” She shook her head. “It could be many months before I can do so. I know you are more than able to convince them you are worthy, but do you feel up to the challenge?”

  Reivan nodded slowly. “If I am to serve the gods well, then I had better put myself in a position where my abilities are useful.”

  Imenja smiled. “Good answer. Ah. Just in time, too. Here’s Shar.”

  As the Fifth Voice stepped onto the balcony, Reivan felt her heart skip a beat. He may have been the least powerful Voice, but he was the most beautiful. His skin was unusually pale, and long, sun-bleached blond hair spilled down his back. His emerald eyes moved from Imenja to her.

  “Ladies,” he said, bowing.

  “Do you mind if Reivan remains here to advise me?” Imenja asked him.

  “Not at all.” He smiled and bowed politely. She felt her face warm.

  “Thank you, holy one,” she replied, her voice coming out quieter than she had intended.

  “Are we the last to arrive?” a new female voice asked.

  They all turned as the other two Voices entered the balcony. Genza was as dark and sharp-featured as the birds she bred. Vervel, in contrast, was stocky and looked to be twenty years her senior. Both had been Servant-warriors during their mortal years, despite having powerful Skills.

  “I’m afraid you are,” Shar told them.

  Genza looked at Reivan and nodded. “Welcome to the Sanctuary, Reivan Reedcutter.”

  Reivan felt her face grow even warmer. She murmured thanks. Two male Servants entered the room. She recognized Genza’s and Vervel’s Companions. The pair nodded to her respectfully, and she returned the gesture.

  As the five new arrivals settled into woven reed chairs, Reivan felt her confidence wither. In the company of all the Voices and their powerful Companions, she felt unimportant and a little pathetic. She resolved to say as little as possible, and concentrate on listening. As if obliging her, the Voices began discussing the Dedicated Servants eligible to become First Voice.

  To her surprise, they debated the merits and failings of each with an enthusiasm that was almost frightening. No aspect of any candidate’s nature was spared their uncompromising scrutiny. She quickly realized why this was important to them. Whoever was chosen would be their leader. They might be working with that person for centuries, or even millennia.

  I wonder why Imenja can’t change to First, she thought suddenly. She seems a good enough leader to me.

  After some time two domestics arrived with a platter of dried fruits, nuts and other delicacies, and a jug of water. The conversation turned to minor matters. Reivan shivered as a cool breeze touched her skin. Looking over the balcony rail, she saw that the sun was near setting.

  “There have been protests against holding the Rite of the Sun during a month of mourning,” Vervel said quietly, his expression neutral.

  Imenja nodded. “I was expecting there to be. We can’t ask couples to wait another year for the next fertility ceremony. What is more healing to the heart than bringing new life into the world?”

  The others nodded or shrugged. Imenja looked at each of them, then smiled.

  “I think we have discussed enough for today. Shall we meet here again tomorrow, if the weather is pleasant?”

  The other three Voices nodded.

  Imenja rose and smoothed her robes. “I’ll see you all at dinner.” She looked down at Reivan. “Come with me, Reivan. We have much to discuss.”

  As she stepped away, Reivan rose and followed. Imenja asked Reivan a few questions about her lessons as they walked. After a few minutes they arrived at the threshold of a large room. Reivan looked around, noting the simple but luxurious furnishings.

  “These are my rooms,” Imenja said. “When you are my Companion you will be given your own private suite of rooms not far from here.”

  Reivan nodded, and thought of the small, dark room she’d been given after becoming a Servant-novice. “I’ll look forward to that.”

  The Second Voice chuckled. “Yes. In the meantime, it may be useful for you to know how ordinary priests and priestesses live.”

  And now I know how the Voices live, Reivan thought as she looked around the room again. What is this room telling me about them? That they are powerful and wealthy, but in a dignified rather than excessive manner. I guess they need to impress any rulers that come here, and reassure their own people that they are in control. She looked at Imenja, remembering her previous unanswered question.

  “So why don’t you become the First Voice?”

  Imenja laughed. “Me?” She shook her head. “There are many reasons, but the foremost is strength. We need someone to replace Kuar who is as magically powerful, or more powerful than Kaur. That would make the new Voice more powerful than me, and it wouldn’t do to have a less powerful Voice ruling over the rest, would it?”

  Reivan shook her head. “I guess not.”

  “I don’t fancy the position either,” Imenja admitted. “I prefer to be less direct in my methods.” She moved to a small gong. As she struck it a pleasant ring filled the room. “Now, I need to deal with a few matters I used to leave to Thar. Stay and listen, for you will be taking on these tasks soon.”

  Following the Second Voice to a set of reed chairs, Reivan resolved to learn as much as she could.

  I may not have magic, but that’s not going to stop me from being a good Companion when the time comes, she told herself.

  Mirar closed his eyes and slowed his breathing, letting his consciousness sink until it hovered between wakefulness and sleep. In this state it was easy to become distracted, to wander into dreams. He kept a part of his mind set on his purpose. It was like the game he had played as a child, where one had to stay in contact with a tree or a rock with one hand while trying to “kill” the other children by touching them. They’d circle around him, darting in and leaping away. He’d stretch out, just one finger touching the tree…

  The tower dream, he reminded himself. I must see this dream Emerahl insists is mine.

  He called out to her, and felt her stir from sleep into dream.

  :Mirar?

  :I am here. Show me the dream.

  :Ah. Yes. The tower dream. How does it begin…?

  The White Tower appeared. It loomed over her/him, as did a sense of impending danger.

  :Have you been to Jarime in the last hundred years? he asked, gently and quietly so as to avoid disturbing her recollection. Have you seen the White Tower?

  :No.

  That was interesting. For her to have dreamed so accurately of something she’d never seen…but then she did believe this was not her own dream.

  The dream was not as accurate as it first appeared. Clouds were cut apart as they passed the top of the tower; it was higher than it truly was. He felt dream fear wash over him. The urge to flee, but also the paralysis of fascination. The dreamer wanted to watch. Wanted to see, though it was dangerous. If he stayed too long they would see the dreamer. Discover who he was.

  “They’? Who were “they’?

  The tower seemed to flex. Cracks appeared. It was too late to run away, but still he tried. Looking back, he saw huge stone bricks falling toward him.

  Why di
dn’t I run sooner? Why aren’t I running sideways, out of the way of the long length of the falling tower?

  The world crashed around him. The noise was deafening. He felt his body covered. Crushed. Bones cracking. Flesh squashing, bursting. Chest collapsing under an enormous weight. Lungs burning as he slowly began to suffocate. No breath to cry out. Not even to give voice to the pain. He fought a numbness that was encroaching upon his mind. He tried to reach for magic, but there was none. The space around him was depleted. Despite that knowledge, he reached further, felt a trickle of it, drew it in. Used it to protect and sustain his head, his mind, his thoughts.

  It isn’t enough.

  Not enough magic to repair his body. Not even enough to lift the rubble of the House piled atop him. Definitely not enough to face Juran again, which he would have to do if he managed to free himself.

  I could just let it go. Let myself die. Juran is right about one thing. A new age is beginning. Perhaps there is no place for me in it, as he claims.

  But what of the Dreamweavers?

  I am no use to them now. All I have done by resisting the gods’ plans is make Dreamweavers an enemy of the people rather than a part of this new society. Nothing lasts forever. Perhaps it is time for them to end, too. I can’t do anything for them now. If I can’t save myself, how can I save them?

  He felt the little magic he had drawn dwindling, yet he reached out for more, stretching further than he had ever stretched before. If he could draw enough to sustain himself, he might survive. It was just a matter of being efficient. No need to realign bones or repair flesh. Just keep basic processes working. There was no food or water here under the rubble. He must slow his body down until it was barely alive. No need to think, just sustain the substance of his mind enough that it continued drawing magic and directing it to its purpose.

  If he did not think, the gods would not see him. Would not know what he was doing. Would not know if he survived.

  But they would know, once he recovered. They had only to read his mind.

  Let them not see me. Let them see another. One who will never be a threat to them. I will become another until…well, for as long as I’m able…or until I die.

  Slowly he let himself sink into darkness.

  :Mirar!

  The darkness veered away like a frightened reyner. Free from the dream, he remembered where he was and what he was doing, and the implications of the dream swamped him.

  :Emerahl. You were right. I remember.

  :I saw it, she replied. You are the true owner of your body. The White Tower was a symbol representing Juran striking you. It was confused with the Dreamweaver House that you were buried under. You, Mirar.

  He felt awe and wonder at what he had done.

  :It worked. I survived. I created Leiard in order to keep the gods from seeing me, and it worked. I walked in their Temple, lay with their priestess and they didn’t know me.

  :You lost your identity, she replied, appalled. You may as well have been dead.

  :But now I have regained it.

  :Fortunate for you that you found a safe place to do so and that I survived to teach you how to hide your thoughts.

  :Yes, and to help me remember. Thank you, Emerahl.

  :I doubt Leiard will thank me.

  :Leiard? He is not a real person.

  :He has become one.

  :Yes, Mirar agreed reluctantly. He has had a hundred years to do so. At least he knows the truth. No wonder we were always at odds with each other. I made him opposite to me in many ways in order to strengthen my disguise.

  :I wonder…Does he still exist? Should we wake up so I can try to call him forth?

  :No, Mirar replied. Not yet. I have much to think about. I feel other memories coming.

  :Tomorrow, then.

  :Yes. Tomorrow. Mirar pushed away a rising feeling of trepidation. What would he do if Leiard was still there in his mind? What could he do?

  :Good night, Emerahl sent sleepily.

  :Good night, he replied.

  Their dream link broke. Alone, Mirar let himself drift into dreams and memories. Not all of them pleasant, but most of them filled with truths he had not known for a century.

  10

  Emerahl rose early and went in search of food. As she dug for edible roots and plucked fruit and nuts from trees she considered the revelations of the night before. What Mirar had done was extraordinary. She wanted to know how he had survived in his broken body as much as she wanted to learn how he had created Leiard and buried his own sense of identity. Was Leiard still in his mind? Could he temporarily slip into a Leiard state again if he knew the gods were watching? That might come in handy.

  He was in a meditative pose when she returned. It was so uncharacteristic for him she felt a sinking dismay, sure that Leiard had taken control. As she put down her bucket one of his eyes opened and his lips twitched into a sly smile.

  “What’s for breakfast?”

  That’s definitely Mirar, she thought, relieved.

  “Rootcakes. Fruit and nuts,” she replied. “Again.”

  Unimpressed, he closed his eye again, leaving her feeling dismissed. He was shielding his mind well, too. She could not even guess at his mood.

  Her stomach rumbled. She peeled the roots, chopped them finely and boiled them until they were soft. Straining them, she mashed them into a paste and began to shape them into flat circles.

  “I remembered much last night,” he said. “After you went to sleep.”

  She straightened to regard him. His eyes opened. He looked like a stranger, his face tight with emotions she had never seen him wear. Once again she wondered if she was talking to Leiard.

  “Like what?”

  His gaze dropped to the floor, but his eyes were focused beyond it. On memories, she guessed. Bad memories from the look on his face.

  “Confusion. After I was found in the rubble I woke as if from a sleep. I didn’t know who I was and nobody else did either. They didn’t recognize me and assumed I was one of the ordinary Dreamweavers who had been caught in the collapse of the House. My body was twisted and misshapen. I couldn’t walk. I couldn’t feed myself. I was so ugly they hid me away so I didn’t frighten women and young children.”

  He spoke softly, with no anger, but with a quiet horror. She shivered, appalled that her old friend had suffered so. Appalled that the great Mirar had been reduced to a cripple with no memory.

  “I healed so slowly,” he continued. “My hair fell out and grew back white. I couldn’t cut it, and by the time I was able to I couldn’t remember why I should want to. As soon as I was able to get my legs to move well enough to carry me, I fled Jarime. I was frightened of the city, but couldn’t remember why. So I hobbled from town to town, village to village, travelling further and further away. Begging, scavenging, treated with charity in one place and driven away from others. The way I existed was pathetic, and it went on for years and years and years.”

  He sighed. “But still I grew stronger. My scars dwindled away. While some memories faded, others returned. I remembered that I was a Dreamweaver, but it was a long time before I dared to make myself a vest or offer my services. I stayed longer in each place, years instead of months. The longest I stayed was for more than a decade, and that was after…” He paused, then grimaced. “After I found a child with so much potential I could not help but stay and teach her.”

  “Auraya,” Emerahl ventured.

  He nodded. “She would have made a fine Dreamweaver.”

  Emerahl felt a mild surprise. “You think so?”

  “Yes. She is intelligent. Compassionate. Gifted. All the right characteristics.”

  “Except for a certain preference for the gods.”

  He smiled ruefully. “Yes. Except for that. Once again, they ruined my plans. Or Leiard’s, anyway.” He frowned. “The Tower in the dream is the White Tower. It didn’t exist then, but it was built where the Dreamweaver House stood. I think seeing that prompted my memories to return.”

&
nbsp; Emerahl leaned forward. “So, is Leiard still there?”

  “I don’t know.” Mirar looked up at her, his expression unreadable. “I guess it is time to find out.”

  She nodded. “I guess it is.” She paused, watching him closely. “Should I summon him?”

  “May as well get it over with.”

  She drew in a deep breath.

  “Leiard. Speak to me.”

  His eyes widened and his face contorted. Emerahl watched in horror and dismay as all signs of Mirar disappeared to be replaced by a mask of terror. His mouth opened, he sucked in a great lungful of air, then he covered his face and a tortured sound poured out—a thin cry of anguish and fear.

  Obviously Leiard’s not gone, she thought dryly.

  He was rising to his feet. She rose hastily and moved closer.

  “Leiard. Calm down.”

  The sound he was making faded to silence. His hands shifted to the sides of his head, as if he wanted to crush it.

  “A lie,” he gasped. “A lie—and she doesn’t know! She doesn’t know what she loved was…” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m not real.”

  Suddenly his eyes were open and staring at Emerahl. He took two steps toward her and gripped her shoulders. “But I am! If I wasn’t, how is it possible that I can think? And feel? How can I not be real?”

  Emerahl stared back at him. He looked half mad, half desperate. She felt a pang of sympathy. “He made you too well,” she found herself saying.

  He released her in one shove of rejection. She stumbled backward and one heel struck the bed. It hurt and she let out an involuntary gasp. Leiard did not notice, however.

  “Why did he make me capable of love?” he railed. “How could he even do so, when he is incapable of it himself?” He paused, then spun about to stare at her accusingly. “Was this what he planned, then? Create another person, then kill him? He might as well sire a child, then murder it.”

  He has a point, she thought.

  Then she shook her head. Leiard was not a real person. He had not been born. He had not grown up among a family. He had not formed this personality over time, it had been created. It made sense that Mirar would give his disguise a sense of self, or it would have no sense of self-preservation.