She heard Jade’s footsteps behind her.
“Mirar is a besotted fool. That’s why he taught you to heal, even though he knew you would eventually work out that it is the same Gift that makes us immortal. He gave you an escape route.”
Auraya caught her breath and slowed to a stop. If what Jade was telling her was true, Mirar had deliberately taught her something that could lead to her becoming immortal. No wonder the gods had forbidden Circlians to learn magical healing. Yet the gods had let her learn it…
“He saw the potential in you—and so did the gods,” Jade continued. “Why do you think they gave you such impossible choices? They know your weaknesses. They manipulated you neatly into leaving the White, leaving their followers believing you sacrificed all for the Siyee. Now you can tragically die and nobody will question it.”
Auraya turned to stare at the woman. She shook her head. “You’re lying.” She must be lying.
Jade laughed. “If only I was. Can you take that risk?”
Chaia’s face rose in Auraya’s memory. Even if Jade was right, she was only partly right. Not all of the gods want me dead.
If she refused Jade’s help she risked that Huan and her allies would kill her, despite Chaia’s opposition.
If she accepted she risked losing Chaia’s support—if she still had it.
Auraya turned away. As she started toward the cave entrance again she expected Jade to follow. Instead the woman called after her.
“You’re a Wild, Auraya. The gods know it. They’re just waiting for the right moment to kill you.”
“I’m not immortal yet,” Auraya tossed over her shoulder. She sensed she was approaching the void and drew magic to maintain her barrier. “I don’t have to become immortal, even if I have the potential to.”
“You don’t have to hide your thoughts either. But if you know how, then if Mirar’s concerns prove valid you may find the Gift useful.”
Auraya slowed and stopped within the void, turned, then stepped back inside the barrier. Jade regarded her soberly.
If there is no crime in having knowledge that can lead to immortality, then there is no crime in knowing how to hide my thoughts, she thought. And if Mirar returns because I refused to learn from Jade, it will cause all manner of trouble.
“How long will it take?” she asked.
Jade’s expression softened. “A few weeks. Less, if you’re a fast learner.”
“The Siyee will come looking for me.”
“We’ll tell them you’re staying only until you’re sure I’m well.”
“Ah, yes. The mythical illness.” Auraya strode toward the woman. “Expect to heal quickly, Jade Dancer, as I don’t intend to be here any longer than necessary.”
The woman snorted. “I assure you, neither do I.”
No matter how many times Reivan rode in a litter, she could never get used to the movement, especially when the carriers were jogging. Or was it the fact that the four slaves had her dignity and well being in their hands which made her uneasy? Like all slaves they were criminals, but these had been chosen for this task by the Servants of the Gods for their reliability, coordination and willing cooperation.
But whoever chose them probably assumed any Servant riding a litter has Skills to call upon if they ever need to defend themselves, or the slaves dropped the litter. She didn’t even have enough Skill to stir up the still, hot air to cool herself. Usually one could only become a Servant if one had Skills, but she had been an exception. Being ordained as a Servant of the Gods had been Reivan’s reward for saving the Pentadrian army from becoming lost in the mines of Sennon…was it really less than a year ago?
She sighed and tried not to look at the sweat running down the backs of the slaves. The signs of their discomfort only made her more uncomfortable. And these black Servant robes don’t help, she added, plucking at the neckline.
The slaves turned onto the Parade and wound their way through the crowd toward the Sanctuary. The sprawl of buildings that made up the main Pentadrian Temple looked like a giant staircase. Imenja had ordered Reivan to return as quickly as possible, and the thought of ascending up through most of the Sanctuary to reach her wasn’t a welcoming one.
At the wide stairs of the building, the slaves set the litter down. Reivan paused to nod in thanks to the slave master, then started her journey upward.
A wide, arched façade welcomed visitors to the largest Pentadrian building in all Ithania. Stepping through one of the openings, she entered a large, breezy hall. Servants hovered around, ready to greet visitors. Beyond the hall there was a courtyard, which she skirted so she could stay in the cool shadows.
A wide corridor followed, taking her through the Lower Sanctuary. Servants were everywhere, their black robes like ink stains against the white walls. The corridor split several times as it branched out into the Middle Sanctuary. As she hurried along the route to the Upper Sanctuary, Servants stepped out of her way and nodded politely.
Their respect roused a smug satisfaction within her. They’ve been like this since Imenja and I returned from negotiating the agreement with the Elai. There had been no protest when Imenja had made Reivan her Companion. Even so, I can’t help looking for signs that the Servants’ acceptance of me is wearing off.
The corridors in the Upper Sanctuary were wide and quiet. The walls were decorated with artworks, and mosaics covered the floors. Doors led to private courtyards, where fountains kept the air cool. She now had a suite of rooms decorated in the same austere but luxurious fashion the Voices enjoyed.
I suppose if you’re going to spend eternity serving the gods you may as well be comfortable while doing so, she mused. I may not be immortal, or need a suite of rooms all to myself, but I appreciate them as much for being an acknowledgment of all the work I do as for their comforts.
:Are you far away? a familiar voice spoke into Reivan’s mind.
It might have been Reivan’s imagination, but Imenja’s mental call seemed strained with anxiety. Reivan frowned.
:No. I’ve two corridors to go, she replied.
Now concern added to her discomfort. Small incidents and hints had led Reivan to suspect her mistress and Nekaun, the First Voice, had grown to dislike each other. She had noticed that Imenja frequently disagreed with Nekaun, and that the First Voice often overrode Imenja’s decisions. Both did so while using the politest of language.
There were subtler signs, too. Whenever in the same room, Imenja never faced Nekaun directly. She often crossed her arms or leaned slightly away from him. He smiled at her frequently, but his eyes always expressed some other emotion than good humor. Sometimes anger; sometimes a challenge.
I’m probably just reading them badly, Reivan told herself. But she could not help feeling disturbed. Any sign of conflict between the Voices, no matter how small, is enough to make anyone uneasy. Even if one could forget the immense magical powers they could wield, there is the long-term welfare of the people to consider. The Voices have to put up with each other for eternity. It is better they get along.
On a personal level it bothered her further. She liked Imenja. The Second Voice treated Reivan like a friend as well as a Companion. She also liked Nekaun, but in an entirely different way. He didn’t treat her like a friend, though he was friendly. Whenever he turned his natural, habitual charm on her she couldn’t help feeling a rush of hope and excitement.
Reivan had hoped a few months at sea would cure her of her attraction to Nekaun, but it hadn’t. Yet the journey had boosted her confidence and determination not to make a fool of herself. She could not do her job and avoid him, so she had decided she simply had to ignore the fluttering in her stomach and the distracting thoughts he stirred until she had been around him so much that he was ordinary and unexciting.
Reaching the beginning of the corridor that gave access to the long balcony on which the Voices liked to meet, Reivan paused to catch her breath. She smoothed her robes, wiped her face, cleared her mind and set forth again.
; The sound of chatter drew her to the end. Several woven reed chairs had been arranged where the view over the city was best. All Voices and their Companions were sitting except for Nekaun. As always, he stood leaning against the railing, looking down at his fellow rulers and their advisers.
Reivan made the sign of the star over her chest and nodded respectfully to all the Voices. The Fifth Voice, Shar, was sipping flavored water. His pale skin and long pale hair was a stark contrast to Genza’s warm brown skin and cropped hair. Vervel, the stocky Third Voice, was heavier and older in appearance than his companions. As always, Genza had brought one of her trained birds, and a vorn lay by Shar’s feet. On Shar’s feet, Reivan noted. The beast panted in the heat of the day.
Avoiding Nekaun’s gaze, Reivan looked at Imenja, the Second Voice. Her mistress was slim and elegant, appearing to be in her late thirties. She smiled at Reivan and gestured to the empty chair beside her.
The conversation had stopped on Reivan’s arrival, but attention had not shifted to her. All were regarding Nekaun expectantly.
He smiled. “Now that we are all here, I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine, Heshema Guide. He has just returned from Northern Ithania, where he has been researching a little recent history for me.”
Glancing out of the corner of her eye, Reivan saw that Imenja was frowning. Her expression of disapproval vanished as footsteps echoed in the corridor. Reivan turned to see a middle-aged man enter the balcony.
She had expected someone with such a typical Sennon name to have the distinctive thin build and sun-browned skin of that race, but Heshema was an unimpressive-looking man. If she’d been asked to describe him, she would have been hard put to think of a feature that might single him out among others. He is quite bland, she mused. But if he’s been gathering information for Nekaun in Northern Ithania, that makes him a spy, and a spy hardly wants to stand out or be memorable.
“An honor to meet you all,” Heshema said in a deep, melodious voice.
As the Voices murmured replies, Reivan smiled. His voice is his distinctive feature, she thought. Though I expect he has learned to adopt a less memorable one when needed.
“I have asked Heshema to tell you what he has learned,” Nekaun said. “Some of you will already know part of it, but you should all learn something new.”
As the First Voice looked at Heshema expectantly, the man nodded.
“I arrived in Jarime in late winter,” the spy began. “The cold there encourages the common people to meet at drinking houses to share the warmth of a fire and exchange gossip. Most of the talk was of Auraya the White’s resignation. The official explanation is that she left in order to devote herself to helping the Siyee, who were suffering great losses to a plague.
“Many admired her for sacrificing immortality and great magical power for such a noble cause, but some questioned the truth of the explanation, speculating that perhaps their gods had banished Auraya from the White for some crime or mistake. The error they considered most likely was her sympathy to the Dreamweavers. She had arranged for Circlian healers and Dreamweavers to work together treating the needy in a building in the poor quarter they called a ‘hospice’. It was an unpopular move, especially among the wealthy citizens.
“Other ideas circulating included an affair with a Dreamweaver, and that she had neglected her duties as a White in favor of helping the Siyee. There were even a few who thought she might have turned Pentadrian.”
The Voices chuckled and Heshema’s lips thinned into a smile.
“There was also speculation that Auraya hadn’t left the White at all,” he continued, “and this was some ruse to lure us into battle. The rash of promotions among Circlians suggested otherwise to me. Only high priests and priestesses are eligible to become a White. Their gods apparently make the final choice, but the White ensure there are plenty of candidates.”
His voice was curiously devoid of skepticism, Reivan noted.
“Did you see anything to make you wonder if their gods are real?” Imenja asked.
Heshema glanced at Nekaun. “Nothing to make me certain of it.”
“That is not what I sent Heshema to discover,” Nekaun interrupted.
“No?” Imenja turned to smile at Nekaun. “Of course not, but he might have noticed something.” She looked at the spy. “Go on with your tale, Heshema.”
The man inclined his head. “I doubted the White would take kindly to me questioning them, so I sought other sources of information. I posed as a Genrian trader in order to meet Auraya’s former adviser, Danjin Spear. He believed the official explanation to be the true one. According to him, the Siyee had stolen Auraya’s heart the moment she first met them. I am sure he was keeping some secret about his former mistress, however. Something personal. He spoke as if something she had done had disappointed him.”
“An affair?” Genza asked.
Heshema shrugged. “That is possible.”
“You said there were rumors of an affair with a Dreamweaver,” Vervel pointed out.
“Yes. I didn’t give them much credence until I questioned the Siyee. I heard that there were a handful of the winged people in Jarime, some acting as ambassadors and others there in training to become priests and priestesses. They have a remarkably low tolerance for intoxicating liquor, and the pair of initiates I spoke to were only too happy to tell me of the rumors in Si concerning Auraya’s last months there as a White.
“She returned to Si in response to your Servants landing there, but stayed due to the outbreak of a plague. When she arrived at the first village to succumb to the disease she found a Dreamweaver already there. She knew this Dreamweaver and those who observed the two of them together said it was clear there was a grudge between them, but they had settled their differences and were friendly by the time Auraya left the village.
“What happened afterward is a mystery that the Siyee would dearly like to solve. The Dreamweaver left Si without explanation and Auraya returned to Jarime and quit the White. They believe both events are connected, but don’t know how. When I suggested an affair, however, they were certain that couldn’t be the reason.”
“Sounds like an affair to me,” Genza said.
“Sounds like the sort of gossip that would naturally arise in that situation, so we shouldn’t assume it is true,” Imenja warned. “Did the Dreamweaver return to Si after Auraya quit the White?”
“The Siyee initiates did not know,” Heshema replied. “They were shocked by the hatred some Hanians felt toward the Dreamweavers. They might have decided to keep the return of the Dreamweaver a secret as a result.
“The Hanians’ dislike and fear of Dreamweavers appeared to be getting worse while I was there. Their paranoia had grown so strong that a rumor that the Dreamweaver leader, Mirar, isn’t dead and has returned to make mischief was circulating just before I left.”
Shar chuckled. “If only he had. We could recruit him.”
“Dreamweavers abhor violence,” Imenja reminded him. “But I expect a man of his Skills and experience could make a lot of trouble for the Circlians—if only he was alive.”
“These rumors are also circulating here,” Nekaun said. “A few of my friends have sought the source of them, and it appears the rumors have originated among the Dreamweavers themselves, all over Avven, Dekkar and Mur, at about the same time.”
“Interesting,” Vervel murmured.
“Yes.”
“So the White are only four, and one of their former enemies may have returned,” Genza said. “Can we take advantage of this?”
“No.” Nekaun’s answer was firm and his expression serious. “The rumors that Mirar is alive are just rumors, and our people in Jarime reported that a replacement for Auraya was chosen yesterday. Her name is Ellareen Spinner.”
The others absorbed this in silence for a moment, then Vervel made a low noise. He looked at Nekaun, then at the spy.
Nekaun nodded. “Thank you, Heshema. We must now discuss this in private.”
The
spy made the sign of the star, then left the balcony.
“So,” Vervel said when the man’s footsteps had faded, “if Auraya is still an ally of the White, they now have the advantage.”
“Yes.”
“Will they invade us, do you think?”
“We can’t risk that they won’t,” Nekaun replied. “We must find a way to tip the balance in our favor again.”
“If only Mirar had returned,” Shar said wistfully.
“Even if he had, a sorcerer who will not kill is of no use to us,” Imenja said. “Not when Auraya is willing to, as she so effectively demonstrated in the battle.”
“We must find another way,” Nekaun said—for once in agreement with Imenja, Reivan noted. “I want you all to think about this carefully. My spies are gathering as much information as they can about the new White. I would like to know what Skills and strength Auraya has retained.”
The Voices and their Companions nodded. After a measured silence, Nekaun smiled and, without warning, looked at Reivan. A thrill ran through her body and she felt herself flush.
“Now, to other matters. Tell us, Reivan, how many raider ships have our Elai friends sunk this week?”
4
Stopping before the bridge, Mirar looked up at the two-story stilt house and smiled. He hadn’t visited a Dreamweaver House in a century…if he didn’t count his visit to the one in Somrey, when he had been Leiard. They had long ago disappeared from Northern Ithanian cities and towns so it had been a pleasant surprise to find they still existed in Southern Ithania.
He crossed the bridge, approached the door and knocked.
Footsteps sounded on a wooden floor inside, then the door opened and a middle-aged woman in Dreamweaver robes looked out. Mirar hesitated, sure that he had missed something, then realized he had been expecting to hear the rattle of a lock being opened.
The Dreamweavers in Southern Ithania don’t even lock their doors!
“Greetings. I am Dreamweaver Tintel,” the woman said, smiling and opening the door wider. What she said afterward was incomprehensible to him, but he sensed friendliness and her gesture told him she was welcoming him inside.
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