His own people were more numerous here than in the north. They did not exist in the numbers they once had, but the general populace appeared to accept and respect them, as they did the followers of other “cults.” Even so, he had avoided the few Pentadrian Servants he had seen. Though local Dreamweavers assured him that Servants were tolerant of heathens, he was also a northerner. Those sick Pentadrians who had learned where he had come from had either refused his help, or reluctantly accepted it if he was in the company of local Dreamweavers. He did not expect the priests and priestesses of their religion to feel any differently.
The cliff that was the edge of Avven loomed over the forest like a great wave that threatened to crash down on Dekkar at any moment. As they sailed further south it withdrew slowly to become a bluish shadow as straight as the horizon. At intervals, buildings appeared along the coast. Standing on high stilts, they were constructed mainly of wood and connected by raised walkways, though here and there, usually in the midst of a town, a stone structure stood out. These stone edifices were painted black with the star symbol of the Five Gods outlined prominently in white.
The sun hung low on the horizon when the ship finally turned toward the shore. It tacked into a bay crowded with vessels and surrounded by the largest gathering of buildings Mirar had seen so far. The broad platforms the houses were built upon connected with neighbors via bridges of rope and slats or, occasionally, brightly painted wood.
Catching the talkative crewman’s eye, Mirar glanced toward the town questioningly.
“Kave,” the man told him.
This was Dekkar’s main city and Rikken’s home. Mirar started toward the hold. The old merchant was being kept alive as much by his own determination as Mirar’s help. Now that he was home, it was possible that his determination might fade too quickly to get him to shore.
So he stopped, surprised, when Rikken stepped out of the hold on wobbly legs. Yuri, the man’s servant and constant companion, was supporting one arm. Mirar stepped forward to take the other.
The old man’s eyes sought the town and he gave a small sigh.
“The Sanctuary of Kave,” he said. Mirar recognized the word “sanctuary,” but could only guess at the mumble that followed. Yuri was frowning, but he didn’t speak as Rikken moved to the rail. From somewhere a crewman produced a stool, and Rikken lowered himself onto it to wait.
The ship worked its way into the bay, dropped anchor, then much fuss was made of lowering Rikken gently into a boat. Mirar collected his bag from the hold and joined the old man.
Crewmen swung down to pick up the oars, and the little boat began to move toward the city. When they reached the wharf, Mirar and Yuri helped Rikken disembark. Mirar noted that the stilts the houses were built upon were whole tree trunks and together they looked like a sturdy, leafless forest.
Yuri arranged for two of the sailors to carry Rikken up a staircase to the platform above. Two others lifted up a litter that had been stowed on the boat. Once they had reached the interconnected platforms of the city, Rikken slumped onto the litter and the four sailors lifted it up. Mirar watched as they started in the direction of the Sanctuary. He bade the old man a silent farewell.
As if hearing Mirar’s thoughts, the old man looked back at him and frowned. He croaked something and the men stopped.
“You come with us,” Yuri explained.
Mirar hesitated, then nodded. I’ll accompany him as far as the Sanctuary, he told himself. After that I’ll take my leave and seek out the local Dreamweaver House. He followed as the crew carried Rikken from one house veranda to another, watched by the inhabitants of Kave.
A maze of verandas and bridges followed. The sailors could not carry the litter across the less stable rope bridges, so they were forced to take a winding path. Over an hour passed before they reached the Sanctuary.
It was a massive stepped pyramid, rising from the muddy soil below. Though squat, it had a heavy, sober presence which made even the more robust wooden houses seem small and temporary. Several Servants hovered around the outside. Mirar moved closer to the litter.
“It has been an honor—” he began.
Rikken turned to look at Mirar. His face was deathly pale and glistened with sweat. Mirar’s farewell died in his throat as he realized the old man was close to having another seizure. Yuri gave a low gasp and began urging the sailors to hurry.
As the group hastened toward the Sanctuary entrance, Mirar sighed and followed them. I guess it’s time to find out how these Pentadrian Servants are going to react to a northern Dreamweaver.
Servants moved to intercept then guide the merchant into the Sanctuary. Once in the cool interior the litter was lowered to the floor. The old man was clutching his chest now. Yuri looked at Mirar expectantly.
Mirar crouched beside Rikken and took his hand. Sending his mind forth, he sensed that the man’s heart was failing. Normally he would let the man die; his only malady was age. But he had been asked to ensure the man reached his home, and he was conscious that many black-robed men and women were watching him.
He drew magic and used it to strengthen the heart a little—enough to steady and restore its beat, but that was all. Rikken’s face regained its color and his pained expression eased. He took a few deep breaths, then nodded at Mirar gratefully.
“Thank you.”
Looking up, Mirar found a circle of Servants regarding him and Rikken curiously. Then an older male Servant stepped through the others and smiled at the merchant. He spoke rapidly in Dekkan, and Rikken muttered a surly reply. The Servant laughed, then began ordering the other Servants about.
Clearly he’s in charge around here, Mirar mused.
A chair was brought and Rikken helped into it. From the friendly manner of the old Servant and the merchant, Mirar guessed they knew each other well. He stepped back and looked around the room.
As he did, he could not help feeling a thrill of appreciation. The walls were covered in pictures made up of tiny fragments of glazed pottery, arranged so artfully that they suggested greater detail than they truly gave. The room was five-sided, each wall depicting one of the Pentadrian gods.
Sheyr, Hrun, Alor, Ranah and Sraal. Mirar had learned the names from the Dreamweavers he’d met. Unlike the Circlian gods, these preferred to keep to themselves, only appearing at momentous occasions. They let their followers run their own affairs, so long as they didn’t stray too far from the central tenets of their religion.
Which makes one wonder how the Pentadrians came to invade Northern Ithania. Did they make that decision themselves, or is waging war one of those central tenets? They do train their priests in warfare, so I suppose the latter isn’t impossible.
He frowned. If that’s true, then it doesn’t bode well for Northern Ithania’s future.
“Dreamweaver,” Yuri called.
Mirar looked up and realized the old Servant was regarding him. The man began to speak, but Yuri interrupted him apologetically. The Servant listened, then his eyebrows rose and he looked at Mirar again.
“You from Northern Ithania?” he asked in Hanian.
Mirar blinked in surprise at the man’s use of the northern language, then nodded. “Yes.”
“How long you been in Southern Ithania?”
“A few months.”
“Do you like?”
Mirar smiled. How could any visitor to another land answer that question in any way but favorably?
“Yes. Your people are welcoming and friendly.”
The priest nodded. “Dreamweavers not welcomed in north, I hear. Now it is more bad.” He looked at Rikken and smiled. “Here we are not so fools.”
“No,” Mirar agreed. More bad? Maybe I should contact Dreamweaver Elder Arleej tonight and ask if that’s true—and why.
“You do good work with this man. Thank you.”
Mirar inclined his head to acknowledge the thanks. As the priest turned to Rikken his expression became solemn. He spoke in the local tongue, then traced a star shape in the air.
Rikken looked down like a chastised child and nodded with acceptance.
Taking a deep breath, Mirar let it out slowly. The Servant had been friendly and even respectful, despite knowing Mirar came from the north. Perhaps being a Dreamweaver was enough to make up for being a foreigner from an enemy land. Perhaps Servants were more sensible about these matters than ordinary Pentadrians.
Most likely there are just as many Servants inclined to be suspicious of me as ordinary Pentadrians. I’ve been lucky enough to meet one who isn’t. He smiled grimly. And the longer I stay in Southern Ithania, the better the chances I’ll encounter one who is.
2
Snow still clung to the highest peaks in Si, but everywhere else the effects of warmer weather were plain to see. The forest was a riot of new growth and flowers. In narrow valleys and on natural tiers along the sides of mountains crops were green and thriving.
The last few days had been the hottest Auraya had endured. In the past she had visited Si during the cooler months of the year. Si experienced both warmer and cooler seasons than she was used to—colder because it was mostly mountainous, warmer because it lay further south than Hania, on the same latitude as the desert land of Sennon.
Flying could provide some relief. The air high up was always chilly. But today she flew low. Her Siyee companions could not tolerate flying for long in a cold wind. The chill stiffened their muscles and taxed their strength.
She looked at the man flying beside her. Though an adult, he was half her size. His chest was broad and his legs muscular. The bones of his last three fingers made up the frame of his wings, supporting a membrane that stretched to the sides of his body. She had spent so long with Siyee now that she had to consciously make herself notice the differences between them and herself. When she did she was amazed that they had offered her, a “landwalker,” a permanent home in their country.
Not that she didn’t give them anything in return. The magical Gifts she had retained since resigning from the White were constantly in use for their benefit, most often flying and healing. She was just returning from a mission to heal a wounded girl in another Siyee village. And if not for those Gifts, many hundreds would have died from plague.
The pale stretch of exposed rock that was the Open—the main Siyee village—was visible ahead of her now. Auraya felt her heart lift. She could make out the Siyee’s homes around the edge of the exposed rock face—bowers made of membranes stretched over a flexible wooden frame fixed to the trunk of a massive tree. She could also see two familiar figures standing on the highest rockshelf, looking up toward her and her companions: Speaker Sirri, the Siyee leader, and Sreil, her son.
Auraya swooped down and landed a few strides away, her companions following. Sirri smiled.
“You’re back early,” she said. “How did it go?”
“I was able to heal her arm,” Auraya replied.
“It was incredible!” the youngest of Auraya’s companions exclaimed. “The girl flew straight after!”
Auraya grimaced. “Which I strongly warned against. I wouldn’t be surprised if that girl’s recklessness leads to worse than a broken arm in the future.”
“Her mother’s a drunkard.”
Auraya glanced in surprise at the man who’d spoken. The Speaker for the girl’s tribe had kept mostly silent until now. He met her eyes and shrugged. “We try to teach the girl some discipline, but it is not easy when her mother allows her to do anything she wants.”
Auraya thought back to the hysterical woman who had hovered over the child protectively. “Maybe that will change now.”
“I doubt it,” the man murmured. Then he shrugged. “Maybe. I should not—what is that?”
She followed his gaze and smiled as she saw a small creature bounding toward her. His pointed ears were folded back and his fluffy tail furled out behind him like a banner.
“That is a veez. His name is Mischief.”
She bent down and let the veez scurry up her arms. Mischief sniffed her, then curled up around her shoulders.
“Owaya back,” he said contentedly.
The tribe leader stared at the veez in astonishment.
“It said your name. It can speak?”
“He can, though don’t expect stirring conversation. His interests usually relate to food or grooming.” She scratched Mischief behind the ears and he proved her point by whispering: “Scratch nice.”
Sirri chuckled. “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave that to his minder again soon. A messenger arrived from the North Forest tribe this morning. He says he encountered a sick landwalker woman a few days ago. She has requested you treat her.”
Auraya blinked in surprise. “A landwalker?”
“Yes.” Sirri smiled grimly. “I asked if he suspected she was a Pentadrian. He’s sure she isn’t. In fact, he says she’s visited Si before in order to get out of harm’s way when the war started. Would you like to question him yourself?”
“Yes.”
The Speaker looked at Sreil. “Could you fetch him? Thank you. In the meantime,” she turned back to look at the Siyee who had accompanied Auraya to the Open, “you are all welcome to join me for refreshments in my bower.”
As they began to walk toward Sirri’s home, Auraya considered the possibility that this landwalker was a Pentadrian sorceress in disguise. It was likely that news of her resignation had reached Southern Ithania, and that one of their five sorcerers had come here seeking revenge for the death of their former leader, Kuar, whom Auraya had killed in the war.
She had retained her ability to fly and heal since resigning from the White, but she’d had no opportunity to test whether any of the fighting Gifts the gods had given her in order to defend Northern Ithania were still hers. I have no idea how strong my Gifts are now, but so far they don’t appear to have reduced by much. I guess I’ll find out how much if this woman does prove to be a Pentadrian assassin!
She could only assume she was no longer immortal. It would be a few years before signs of age confirmed that she had lost that Gift. Had it been worth it? She looked around the Open and nodded to herself. With her ability to fly rapidly from village to village, coupled with the healing Gift Mirar had taught her, she had prevented many hundreds of Siyee deaths during the spread of Hearteater through the country. Not all deaths, however. She could not be in two places at once, and when the plague had been at its worst there had been too many sick Siyee for her to reach.
Though the official reason for her resignation from the White—the plague in Si—had passed, she found she did not miss her former position. She was content to live out the rest of her life helping the Siyee. Juran had allowed her to remain a priestess and had even sent a priest ring and circs, brought to Si by one of two priests who had joined the pair already in the Open.
Juran was the only White who still communicated with her. She had heard nothing from the others. The gods no longer visited her either, though occasionally she had sensed something in the magic around her that suggested Chaia’s presence.
I wonder if he’s watching me. He must know whether this landwalker woman is a Pentadrian or not. I wonder if he’ll warn me if she is.
She missed his visits. Sometimes at night she longed for his touch and the sublime pleasure he had brought her when they were lovers. But that had just been sensation, not affection. What she missed most was having someone to confide in. To share her worries with.
Even if that someone is the source of the worries, she mused.
Reaching the edge of the forest, Sirri led them to her bower. It was a little larger than the average bower, allowing her to host gatherings of visiting Siyee. Once inside they sat down and began to eat the bread, fruit and nuts Sirri laid out on the table for them. After several minutes Sreil returned with the messenger, a young man he introduced as Tyve, who looked familiar.
“We’ve met before, haven’t we?” Auraya asked.
The Siyee nodded. “Yes. I was helping Dreamweaver Wilar when you came to my village last year.”
Wilar. At the name Auraya felt a shiver run down her spine and a face flashed into her memory. Wilar was the name Mirar had been using while among the Siyee.
Wilar. Mirar. Leiard. I wonder if he goes by any other names. She had been appalled to discover that the man she had learned magic and cures from as a child, whom she had loved and trusted as an adult, was actually the famous Mirar, immortal founder of the Dreamweavers. The deception had angered her at first, but she hadn’t been able to sustain her fury once he opened his mind to show her the truth about his past.
It was impossible to imagine what it had been like for him, crushed beneath a building then existing without a memory while his crippled body slowly healed over many, many years. He had invented the personality that was Leiard and suppressed his own in order to hide his true identity from the gods.
It is a miracle he survived, she thought. I can’t help admiring him for that.
By the time she had encountered him in the North River village, Mirar’s true self had regained control, but only by somehow combining with the persona of Leiard.
I’d just started to like him again when the gods ordered me to kill him.
“Do you remember?” Tyve asked tentatively.
She dragged her attention back to him. “Yes. I do. Sirri tells me you’ve met this landwalker woman before?”
He nodded. “Yes, at the same place we first met Wilar. I think they know each other.”
Auraya’s heart skipped a beat. Could this be the friend she had glimpsed in Mirar’s mind when he had opened his thoughts to her?
“What does she look like?”
“Tall, hair the color of bloodsap, but lighter. Pale skin. Green eyes.”
Auraya nodded. The woman in Mirar’s memory had red hair. “Did she give you her name?”
Voice of the Gods Page 3