Last of the Wilds

by Trudi Canavan

  This was wooden. She could feel metal hinges on the inside. Drawing in a deep breath, she let out a yell that echoed deafeningly in the room. At the same time she pounded on the door with her fists.

  A few yells later she had to stop. He head was spinning and her arms ached. She slumped against the door.

  From outside came the sound of approaching footsteps.

  Hope flared inside her and strength came back. She yelled with renewed enthusiasm. There were voices just outside the door. It vibrated as the lock was worked. She backed away as the door opened. Two men appeared.

  Her heart sank. One was her captor, the other was a stranger. As the newcomer stared at her with inhuman, greedy eyes all hope fled. Her legs buckled. She flinched as her knees met the stone floor.

  The two men ignored her and began to talk in low voices. Her captor gestured at something on the floor outside the room. The greedy man stooped to pick it up.

  It was a sack. As he started toward Imi, she shrank away, but there was nowhere to go. When she struggled he cuffed her, speaking with words she didn’t understand but in a warning tone she did. Once she was inside the sack, he picked her up and carried her away. She felt herself moving upward, then saw sunlight through the weave. She was put in a dark place again and the floor began to move.

  Dizzy with weakness, she listened to the strange sounds about her. They multiplied and grew louder. Voices overlaid everything. She felt a surge of terror. Landwalkers surrounded her. It was too easy to imagine they were all like the raiders and her captor, greedy and cruel.

  The nice landwalker was different, she reminded herself. There must be more like him out there. Perhaps in this crowd. What if she yelled for help? What if she managed to get out of the sack and the vehicle?

  She struggled against the sack and felt her leg touch something. That something recoiled, then slammed into her calf. She gasped in pain. A voice muttered something angrily.

  If she yelled he would hurt her again, but it might be worth it. She gathered her strength for another effort but paused as she felt the floor stop moving.

  Another voice came from close by. It and the greedy man talked cheerfully. Hands grabbed and lifted her. She recognized the smell of the sea at the same time as she heard the too familiar creaking and splashing of a ship.

  They carried her upward, then downward, then put her on a hard floor. She lay still, conscious of a familiar rocking motion. It made her feel queasy. Above her people were shouting. People on ships were always shouting. She heard the footsteps draw closer. The sacking moved, then drew back. She struggled free, eager for fresh air.

  Looking up, she froze in surprise.

  Instead of the greedy man, two women stood over her. Both wore many-layered black clothes and silver pendants. They smiled at her.

  “Hello Imi,” the older one said. “You are safe now, Imi.”

  Imi stared at her in astonishment. She spoke my name? How does she know my name? And how can she be speaking Elai?

  The woman leaned forward and extended a hand. “Nobody is going to hurt you any more. Come with us and we will help you.”

  Imi felt tears spring to her eyes. At last, her rescuers had come. They didn’t look anything like what she’d imagined. Neither was her father, or a great warrior—or even the kind landwalker. Just two women.

  But they’d do.

  26

  The sky was every color. At the horizon it was a pale yellow. A little higher it gained a warm blush. Higher still, unexpected colors formed; greens that deepened into blues then shifted into an intense dark blue that stretched overhead and became the black, star-prickled night sky.

  A pretty sunset is supposed to be a sign of good weather, Emerahl mused. Better be or I’m in for another rough ride.

  The storm that had raged these last few days had been the kind that could easily have wrecked ships. When it eased a little she had searched for and found the staircase. It was steep, narrow and overgrown. Descending, she had wondered if she would find someone in the cave Gherid had told her she would find. Perhaps a victim of the storm. Perhaps The Gull himself.

  The cave had been empty. The storm had worsened again, but no refuge-seekers had arrived, nor The Gull. It trapped her there, but she did not mind; she was in no hurry. The cave was not luxurious even by a poor man’s standards, but it was dry. She could imagine The Gull here. She imagined she could smell him—a mix of sweat, salt water and fish—in the crude furniture made of driftwood and sailcloth.

  The Gull himself. Immortal. Mysterious. A fellow Wild.

  It was possible he was aware that his sanctuary had been invaded and was staying away. It was tempting to wait a little longer and see if he turned up. There was a store of dried foods in the cave and she could fish.

  But she did not want to touch the stores. Gherid had told her this place was a refuge for those The Gull saved. She was no stranded shipwreck survivor so she felt she had no right to use any of the supplies here.

  No, it is time I moved on, she thought. The chance that he might happen by while I was here was slim anyway. I will do as I planned: leave a message and continue on my way.

  She considered the contents of her message. Not being much good at riddles, yet reluctant to write anything too specific—even in an ancient dead language—she had opted for symbolizm she hoped The Gull would understand. She had gathered up a hank of the stringy white weed called “old woman’s hair” and twisted it into a rope. Onto this she had strung a moon shell with markings in the shape of a crescent moon. Knotting the rope into a loop, she had hung it on the wall at the back of the cave.

  The string was meant to tell him: “I am The Hag,” and the shell indicated the phase of the moon she would return at. Sometimes she thought it was a tad obvious. Other times she worried whether he would understand it. Or even find it.

  The sky was now mostly black with a warm glow at the horizon. She crossed her arms and leaned against the side of the cave entrance.

  Many things had occurred to her while she had been here. For a start, Gherid’s mind and the minds of others who had met The Gull were not shielded. Anyone able to read their minds would know The Gull still existed. That meant the gods knew he was alive. So why hadn’t they killed him?

  Perhaps because he is too hard to find, she thought. They need to work through a willing human. If he can evade their human servants, he can avoid them.

  Or perhaps they’ve decided he is no danger to them. They may even approve of him, since he does save the lives of Circlians and has never encouraged mortals to worship him.

  She frowned. Is he any different to me, in that regard? I heal people. I’m no real threat to the gods. I have never wished to be worshipped. Maybe I fear them for no reason. Maybe they’d let me live if they knew where I was.

  If that is true, why did the priests hunt for me when they found there had been a suspiciously long-lived sorceress living in the lighthouse? Why did the gods give a priest the ability to read minds, so he could better find me?

  They might not have intended to kill her, just question her.

  Not likely. She snorted softly. The gods hate Immortals. They always have. Which brought her to another matter she had been considering. A question she had asked herself many times in the past.

  Why do the gods hate us? They have nothing to fear from us. We can’t harm them. We might work against them, but our efforts have rarely had much effect. Could it be that they have a reason to fear us?

  She shook her head. It was easy to read more into the gods’ hatred of immortals than was actually there. They kill us because they want complete control over mortals. They want their followers to go to priests and priestesses for cures, not me or Dreamweavers.

  A brightness had appeared at a different stretch of the horizon. She pushed all thought of the gods aside and watched the half-moon rise. When it had floated free of the sea she looked around. It gave her enough light to sail by. She picked up her bag, gave the cave one last look, then started
up the staircase to the top of the Stack.

  It was narrow, and where it turned out of the light of the moon darkness blotted out all detail, forcing her to create a small light. The grassy surface of the top seemed much smaller now it was not veiled by rain. To her relief, her boat was still there. The ropes had kept it in place throughout the storm. She untied them, pulled out the pegs and dragged it to the side of the Stack. Stepping inside, she took a few deep breaths and cleared her mind.

  Taking in magic from the world, she lifted the vessel into the air, out over the edge of the cliff, then slowly down to the water.

  When she felt the caress of the sea on the boat’s hull she released it. At once a current began to draw her away. She watched as the Stack slowly diminished in size, thinking of the message she had left and wondering if The Gull would believe it.

  And if he does, will he answer it?

  Moderator Meeran of the Somreyan Council drew in a deep breath and let it out again. The meetings of the council often left him exhausted these days. He did not like this sign of his encroaching old age and always forced himself to remain and chat with those who lingered afterward.

  The grand old Council building faced toward the port of Arbeem. Tall windows allowed a grand view of the city and bay. Tiny lights moved on the water, each cluster indicating the position of a ship. Two figures stood by one of the windows, talking quietly.

  Meeran blinked in surprise. A white circular garment hung from the shoulders of one of the figures. The other wore humbler clothes: a leather vest on top of a plain woven tunic. Meeran narrowed his eyes. It was not often that the Dreamweaver and Circlian Elders of the Somreyan Council were seen together. Usually those two coming together resulted in the need for his hasty intervention. This time, however, they appeared to be chatting amiably.

  Appearances could be deceiving, and could rapidly change. Meeran decided it would be prudent to investigate. Nobody intercepted him as he crossed the room. His suspicion that this was because others had noticed the pair at the window was confirmed when Council Elder Timbler caught his eye and smiled sympathetically.

  As he neared the window Arleej turned to regard Meeran. She smiled crookedly.

  “We were just discussing our new neighbors, Moderator,” she said.

  He glanced out of the window and saw the object of their attention. A large ship was tied up to the docks. Its hull and sails were black. Distant figures were moving off the vessel, each well burdened.

  “They are fools if they think they can convert Somreyans so soon after the war,” High Priest Haleed muttered.

  Meeran looked at the old man. “So you do believe that is why the Pentadrians are here?”

  “Why else?” Haleed replied sullenly.

  “Of course it is.” Arleej gave Haleed a mocking glance. “They are convinced their gods are the only true gods. We already know how single-minded those with such beliefs can be.”

  Haleed’s chin rose. “They will fail,” he said. “Our gods are real. Theirs are not. They must be more forceful or clever to convince others to join them. In the attempt they will cause much trouble.”

  Arleej made a disbelieving noise.

  “You disagree?” the priest asked.

  “I agree that they will cause strife here,” she said. “What I wonder is how you can be so sure their gods aren’t real.”

  “Because the Circle has told us they are the only ones.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “The only ones to have survived the gods’ war, that is. Perhaps the Pentadrians’ gods have risen since.”

  “The Circle would have noticed.”

  “Perhaps they didn’t.”

  Meeran raised his hands in a pacifying gesture, though the conversation did not appear to be leading to an angry exchange. “We could argue this all night. I am more interested to know what you both think the consequences may be of the Council’s decision to allow them to settle.”

  Haleed looked down at the ship and scowled. “Trouble, as I said. First we allow them to enter our country, then what? Will we give them a place on the Council?”

  Arleej smiled. “If they gather enough followers to become a legitimate religion we cannot refuse them a place. It is our law and tradition.”

  “Perhaps it is time we changed that law,” Haleed said darkly. “Or increased the required number of followers.”

  A shadow passed over Arleej’s face. She’s concerned the hatred of Pentadrians would convince Somreyans to agree to that, Meeran realized. The Dreamweavers are few in number compared to the potential number of Pentadrians that might come here. A law like that would rob her of her place on the Council but not prevent the Pentadrians gaining power.

  “The people will never agree to that, no matter how frightened they are of our visitors,” Meeran assured them.

  “So we’re stuck with them,” Haleed growled.

  “Not necessarily,” Arleej said quietly. “They have only to undertake one act of aggression and we can throw them out. We get to decide what an act of aggression is.”

  Haleed looked at her, his expression one of begrudging respect. She smiled back at him. Meeran looked from one to the other, then shook his head. Their strengths had been refined through years of resistance to each other. The thought of what they might do united was more than a little disturbing.

  “They do claim to be here to make peace,” Meeran reminded them. “Dubious as that claim may be, I think we should at least give them a chance to prove it.”

  The two Elders looked at him, and though their faces clearly showed that they disagreed, both nodded.

  There was snow on the northern mountains already, Auraya noted. Small patches of it reflected the light of the moon, giving the mountains a dappled look. Soon those patches would grow in size, join together and the mountains would be clothed with white.

  She frowned as she considered the effect an early and hard winter might have on the Siyee if they were weakened by Hearteater.

  It will not be so bad if I can stop the disease spreading, she told herself.

  But that was not always easy. While healer priests and priestesses understood a little about plagues, ordinary people regarded the spread of such illnesses with fear and superstition. She had discovered today that the Siyee were no different.

  The family that had left the North River tribe had refused to leave the Open voluntarily, despite being offered bowers close by and assurances that they only need stay away long enough for all to be sure they weren’t sick. When Sirri ordered them to leave they had obeyed, but resentfully.

  The Siyee living about the Open had mixed reactions to the situation. Some reacted fearfully, and Auraya suspected Sirri would have her hands full keeping those people from leaving. Others thought the North River family was being treated unfairly and did not hesitate to voice their anger.

  Fortunately, none of the visitors showed signs of the illness. The messenger, however, was feeling more wearied by their journey back to the North River tribe than he ought to. She looked across at Reet and frowned.

  He must have left the priests’ bower not long after I did, she remembered. I can sense that he’s hungry. He could not have eaten much and didn’t rest at all. Perhaps weariness is all that is wrong with him.

  He had left hours before she had, but she had caught up with him easily. Now she was torn between flying on ahead and remaining with him. What if the sickness came over him quickly? What if he passed out and fell to his death?

  What if he was just tired and she arrived too late to save one of the tribe?

  It was an impossible choice. If only she knew what was happening in the village—if anyone would suffer because of the delay.

  Perhaps there was a way to find out. There was someone she could ask. He might not answer her call, he might not even answer her questions, but she could only try.

  :Chaia.

  She waited for several heartbeats then called again. When no familiar presence touched her senses she sighed and thought about her dil
emma again. Perhaps she should consider what she did know about the situation she was in. All I know is that Reet is dangerously tired. So she must decide based on that.

  I will stay with him, just in case, or until I know more. Chaia may still turn up.

  She felt a shiver run down her back at the thought of being in the god’s presence again. So much had changed in the last few days.

  I don’t miss Leiard any more, she thought, smiling. Chaia was right about that.

  She had never felt such pleasure before. Her experiences with Chaia were like a dream link, but far more sophisticated. Dream links relied upon the memory of physical pleasure. Her time with Chaia was one of discovery and of ecstasy she hadn’t felt before. His touch could only be the touch of magic, but that changed when their mind and will united. Magic could become sensation. He was able to respond to her slightest desire, yet at the same time he could stimulate her in ways she had never imagined were possible.

  She had expected the world to seem subdued in comparison to her encounters with Chaia, but instead it was as though her senses had been enlivened. Every object was fascinating. Every living thing, beautiful and vibrant.

  Fortunately this effect faded. She did not want to be distracted by the beauty of an insect while trying to discuss important matters with the Siyee. Seeing them with her senses awakened had only strengthened her wish to protect them.

  Yet she was also more conscious of the differences between them and herself now. Her height and winglessness. Their mortality. Being so conscious of the differences between herself and them saddened her. Had she come closer to a god only to move further from mortals? It was a disturbing thought.

  But it is nice to look forward to night again, she thought. And there’s not much point worrying about it right now. Smiling to herself, she put all worries aside and drifted into daydreams of her next encounter with Chaia.