Voice of the Gods

by Trudi Canavan

  Yem had gone ahead to announce their arrival. Danjin could not help worrying about the young man’s safety. If the warriors had been converted by the Pentadrians, too, who knew what could happen?

  Danjin let the flap fall and looked at Ella. She smiled back at him.

  “Don’t worry, Danjin. Yem is safe, and has arranged every thing.”

  The platten slowed as it reached the hill. The arem were exhausted. The sound of their hoof beats suddenly echoed off close walls and the platten reached flat ground. It stopped and Ella drew the hood of her cloak over her head. Danjin followed her out and Gillen clambered after them.

  They had arrived in a courtyard between two fortress walls. It was empty but for two warriors standing by a second gate and a pair of guards that Ella glanced at briefly. One of the warriors was Yem, the other a broad-shouldered man with gray in his hair.

  “Greetings, Ellareen of the White. Welcome to my home,” the older warrior said quietly.

  Ella smiled. “Greetings, Gret, Talm of Correl. This is Danjin Spear, my adviser, and Gillen Shieldarm, Ambassador of Hania.”

  “Welcome. Come inside where we may talk in comfort,” he invited.

  Ella had asked Yem to arrange for this meeting to be held with as few witnesses as possible. They saw no others as they walked through the second gate, along a narrow corridor and into a hall. Ella’s gaze was slightly distracted and Danjin guessed she was checking for the minds of unseen watchers.

  Gret led them along the hall to a staircase and they ascended to a corridor. He stopped beside a door and ushered them into a cavernous room decorated with large wall hangings.

  Ella took the seat Gret offered. The old warrior moved to a side table and poured fwa into five goblets, then handed them around.

  “That is an impressive hanging,” Gillen murmured. He was gazing up at the largest. It depicted a grand view of hills divided into fields by low walls, with small villages glimpsed in the creases. The sea was a shimmering expanse beyond and huge clouds floated over all.

  It’s just colored thread on cloth, Danjin thought. How do they get the sea to shimmer and the clouds to look so real just with stitches?

  “My late wife made it,” Gret said. “She was gifted at the art. It is of the view from the roof of this fortress.”

  “She was indeed gifted,” Gillen said. “It is an unusual subject for a Dunwayan hanging.”

  “Unusual in such a large hanging,” Gret agreed. “Women often make smaller hangings of their homes, and keep them in their private rooms—which is why you have not seen them before.” He smiled. “Tia was more ambitious. I like them, so I had them moved in here after she died.”

  He turned away and sat down opposite Ella. Gillen and Danjin took places on either side of the White. Looking up at the hanging again, Danjin wondered if one of the villages depicted on it was the one the Pentadrians had settled in.

  “Yem said you were here on a matter of urgency and importance,” Gret said. “How can I be of help to you?”

  “I need the assistance of your warriors,” Ella began. As she told him of the Pentadrians who had settled in Dram, the old man’s expression changed to dismay.

  “Are you sure of this—that their intentions are ill?”

  “I have read it from their minds,” Ella replied.

  “I was told they were hard workers and kept their ways to themselves.”

  “You did not investigate yourself?”

  He shook his head. “I trust Dram’s leader. He would have reported any trouble. The Pentadrians pay their tithe. Some have even married locals.”

  “You allowed marriages between Circlians and Pentadrians?”

  He shrugged. “Of course.”

  Ella shook her head in disbelief. “Tell me, was it a Pentadrian or Circlian rite?”

  Gret shrugged. “I didn’t ask.”

  “Did the Pentadrian of these couples convert to a Circlian, or the Circlian convert to a Pentadrian?”

  He spread his hands.

  “What will their children be, Pentadrian or Circlian?”

  “I don’t know.” He was frowning now. “I prefer to leave them their privacy.”

  “An admirably generous policy, if these newcomers were from Sennon or Hania. But these people are our enemy. They follow gods that would destroy us, if they could. We can’t trust them—as has been demonstrated here.” She leaned forward to stare at Gret. “I-Portak agrees with me. The Pentadrians and the people of Dram must be taken to Chon to be judged.”

  Gret’s mouth dropped open, but he quickly closed it again. His face reddened.

  “To Chon? Is that necessary? We could hold trials here.”

  Ella shook her head. “It is impossible to hide something of this magnitude, Gret. People will find out.”

  “But should the Pentadrians have the satisfaction of the world knowing of their success—no matter how brief?”

  “People need to see what they have done in order to be alert for such deception in the future. And they need to see that rapid and appropriate punishment is dealt out to those who harbor Pentadrians.”

  “But do all of the villagers have to go north? What of the old? Women? Children? It is a long way and a cruel hardship for the innocent.”

  Ella grimaced. “They must all go, or innocents will be targeted in the future. Will you assist me?”

  Gret’s shoulders drooped. “Of course.”

  As Ella began to discuss numbers of men and a strategy for approaching and dealing with the villagers, Danjin considered the old warrior. Clearly his pride would suffer if others knew he had been deceived by the enemy. His income would suffer, too. A village emptied of workers meant crops, animals and fishing boats left untended. Danjin had to wonder how much of Gret’s dismay was due to loss of honor and profit, and how much at the journey and punishment his people were about to face.

  Yet at the same time Danjin felt sympathy toward Gret’s protestations, and a nagging dismay. Was Ella so eager to make an example of the village that she would punish all with equal harshness, whether convert or not, old or young, adult or child?

  I guess we’ll find out soon.

  29

  As dawn crept through the jungle, Mirar wiped his brow and tried to ignore the sweat already running down his back. Soon Genza would emerge from her cabin and propel the barge up the river again, and the motion would bring the relief of a breeze.

  Mirar could imagine how unpleasant a river journey through Dekkar would be without a Voice on board. Each night, when Genza stopped for a meal and sleep, the breeze died. There was little or no wind on the river, and the heat was relentless.

  Mirar had found his cabin stifling, so he slipped out each night to sleep on the deck with the crew. The jungle was never quiet. The buzz of insects and calls of birds formed a constant background noise. Occasionally other calls echoed through the trees. Some of these attracted more attention than others. Once a deep rumble close to shore caused all dinner conversation to end abruptly. A crewman had told Mirar it had been the call of the legendary roro, a giant black-furred carnivore with enormous pointed teeth. Stories had been told of roro that had swum out to vessels at night and dragged away passengers or crew.

  Which explained why they kept several lamps burning brightly at night, and why they moored in the middle of the river, away from overhanging branches, and looped ropes around the vessel strung with bells.

  The crewman was a wiry middle-aged man named Kevain. Each night the man invited Mirar to sleep beside him on the crowded deck, under his bug net, in exchange for some of Tintel’s oil. Kevain brought out a small skin of a potent liquor and they exchanged stories until the drink made them drowsy enough to sleep.

  A sound nearby drew Mirar’s attention to Kevain. The man was climbing to his feet, deftly rolling up the bug net and stowing it away. He grinned at Mirar.

  “We reach Bottom today,” he said. Bottom was the name of the town they were heading for. “You fear being up high?” he asked, pointing
at the escarpment that loomed over them.

  Mirar shook his head.

  “Good. Good.” The man clenched a fist and waggled it—a gesture that Mirar had taken to be approval of courage. “It’s hard for those who do. If you feel bad, don’t look down.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Mirar replied.

  Kevain’s grin widened. “After that, you ride the winds. Lucky you. Ah, the Fourth Voice is awake and I best be getting to work.”

  He hurried to join the crew, leaving Mirar to greet Genza. A quick morning meal was served then Genza took her position at the bow.

  Finding a place to sit out of the way, Mirar watched as the jungle slid past and the cliff drew closer. After an hour or so the barge slowed. A small pier had appeared ahead of them. Genza left the job of steering the vessel to the pole men, who deftly brought it up to the pier and bound it securely.

  A short but hurried interval of organization followed as supplies were carried off by domestics. Mirar collected his bag from his cabin, nodded farewell to Kevain, then waited near Genza until she gestured for him to join her. They stepped onto the pier together and started down it, Servants and domestics following.

  At the end of the pier an equally narrow street passed between wooden houses built right up against each other. Walls were colored with bright paint in various stages of deterioration. The street was covered with sand, which seemed odd. Mirar had seen no sand in the jungle so far. Signs bearing pictures illustrating the business within hung above each door. There was little variety. The locals sold food, wine and transportation and hired out beds and women.

  The latter leaned out of doorways wearing unconvincing smiles and bright, revealing clothes. They looked sick and unhappy, and shrank indoors at the sight of Genza and the Servants. He felt a pang of sympathy, and resolved to return here one day and see if he could help them. Genza barely glanced at the women, striding on to the end of the street.

  A large building stood there. Behind it was the escarpment wall. Genza stopped to watch as a wooden box began to rise from the roof. Mirar noted the thick ropes stretching upward. He looked up. The escarpment loomed over the village. A tiny object moved against the dark rock: another box.

  “The supplies are already on the way up,” Genza said. “We’ll catch the one coming down.”

  Mirar noted a small crowd gathered outside the building. He sensed annoyance already changing to begrudging respect as these men and women saw the reason their ascent had been delayed.

  Genza led him inside the building. A large iron wheel filled most of the room. Ropes as thick as Mirar’s arm stretched up through a gap in the roof.

  “The lifters must hold close to the same weight,” Genza said, holding her hands out and raising one while dropping the other, then reversing. “The weight of the load coming down is often less than that coming up, as Dekkar has more produce to sell than western Avven. The operators load bags of sand to balance it.”

  Mirar nodded. That would explain the sandy streets of the village. There would be no use in sending it back up.

  As the descending box slowly dropped through the roof, Genza led Mirar up a set of wooden stairs to a platform. A man waited there, and as he saw Genza he respectfully made the sign of the star.

  The box stopped level with the platform. The top half of the box’s side was open and Mirar could see several people within. He sensed fear and relief, but also exhilaration and boredom. Mirar recognized the smell of a root Dekkans used for its calming effect. Several of the passengers were chewing.

  As the passengers saw Genza, their eyes widened. All made the sign of the star. The operator unlatched the bottom half of the box and opened it like a door. Once the people had left, descending from the platform using a different staircase, the man dragged out a few bags of sand. He stepped aside, and lowered his gaze as Genza entered. Mirar caught the man’s quick, curious glance as he followed.

  A bell rang. The box jerked into motion. As it emerged from the roof, Mirar looked out on a sea of trees.

  The jungle stretched out before them, only broken by the river, which twisted and turned upon itself several times. The view improved as they rose. He realized he could see the sea in the distance. This is what Auraya sees when she flies, he thought suddenly. He felt an unexpected pang of envy. Emerahl failed to learn to fly, but that doesn’t mean I would. I wonder if I’ll ever get a chance to ask Auraya to teach me. And if she’d agree to. I taught her to heal. She owes me something in return…

  “What do you think of this little contraption?” Genza asked.

  Mirar turned to regard her. “Impressive. Have there been many accidents?”

  “A few.” She shrugged. “Mostly due to the foolishness of passengers. The rope is replaced every year, and tested carefully for flaws.” Looking out at the view, she gave a little sigh. “I never tire of this, no matter how many times I see it.”

  Mirar gazed out at the view again. It truly was spectacular. Too soon the box slowed and then jerked to a halt. It had drawn level with a platform built out from the side of the cliff, surrounded by a railing. Mirar followed Genza out of the box and into another small village.

  This place was as sprawling as Bottom had been compact. A broad street ran between widely spaced clay houses. Everything appeared to be the same bleached sand color—even the clothes of the locals—though that might have been the effect of the bright sun. It was both hotter and drier and the relentless sound of insects and birdsong had been replaced by the constant whine of wind.

  “This is Top,” Genza said. “I know, not very imaginative names.”

  The boxes and chests from the barge were being loaded onto a tarn, while two platten waited nearby to carry the Servants. Genza checked that all was arranged as she wished, then bade the Servants a good journey. Mirar looked at her questioningly. She smiled.

  “We’ll go on alone from here. It’ll be much faster.”

  “How?”

  Her smile widened. “By windboat. Follow me.”

  She strode through the village. At the edge Mirar saw a flat, featureless desert extending to the horizon. Genza led him to one of several windowless, two-story stone buildings at the village edge, and through a door. The interior was dark after the bright sunlight. As Mirar’s eyes adjusted he realized there was no ceiling above him. The building was hollow. To one side there were several large wooden doors. One was open, allowing in enough light to reveal the strange contraptions within.

  Boats. Strange narrow boats with oversized sails. Mirar gazed around the room at the different vessels. All had flat, narrow wooden hulls and pale sails bound tightly to graceful masts. Genza looked up at him and grinned.

  “You’ll like this.” She turned away as a middle-aged local man hurried toward her. He ushered them outside.

  “The two windsailors over there are waiting for you,” he said, pointing at two figures in the distance standing beside two of the strange boats.

  “I will not need a sailor,” she said, “but my companion will. Are the winds favorable?”

  The man nodded. “If they keep up, they might take you all the way to Glymma.”

  She thanked him and strode toward the distant figures. Mirar followed.

  “Can they really take us all the way to Glymma?”

  “So long as the wind holds,” she said. “We should be there in four days.”

  Four days? Mirar shook his head. Now I know why she didn’t bother sailing around the coast. A ship would never have made it to Dekkar and back as quickly.

  The figures were two young men. As Genza approached they smiled and made the sign of the star. She examined the windboats, then chose one. The sailor let go of it reluctantly. Mirar guessed that boats belonged to and were maintained by their sailors, and wondered how the young man would get his vessel back.

  A gust of wind battered them, and the remaining windsailor was clearly straining to hold his boat still. When it had passed, Genza pointed to the front of the hull.

  “You
sit there, face forward,” she explained. “Don’t move. It takes balance as much as windsense and magic to sail these.”

  Sitting down, Mirar placed his bag between his knees. He looked back to see that the windsailor had wound a scarf about his face and was now sitting at the stern. Genza settled in the same part of her adopted windboat and as another gust of wind rushed around them the sail unfurled and she shot forward.

  As the boat beneath Mirar tilted, he grabbed hold of the edges. He heard the young man speak, his voice muffled. Glancing over his shoulder he saw the man pointing to the hull. He looked down and saw handholds. There were also two hollows for him to wedge his heels into. As he took advantage of both the young man made an undulating cry and the boat began to move.

  It did not fly forward as Genza’s had, but slowly gained momentum. Mirar looked up to see that the sailor was unfurling the sail slowly.

  They gathered speed. The boat slid away from the village. Mirar felt the wind gust against him from one side. Another cry came from behind him and he heard a snap of fabric as the sail unfurled completely. The boat turned abruptly and shot across the sand.

  It was exhilarating. Mirar found himself whooping along with the windsailor. They scooted toward an unchanging horizon. But soon the sailor quietened, though the speed of the vessel didn’t diminish. The occasional crosswind blew dust into the side of Mirar’s face. The air was dry, and the sun beating down on them was hot and relentless.

  Hours passed. Eventually they reached a stretch of shallow dunes. Gusts of wind began to buffet them from the side. Mirar felt every movement of the sailor as he fought the crosswinds. He felt a growing respect for the skill of the young man.

  Then he remembered Genza and searched the sands ahead of them. There was no sign of her. But her boat carried only one passenger, so it was bound to go faster than his. He probably wouldn’t see her again for hours—probably not until they stopped for the night.

  A spray of sand and a gleeful yell told him otherwise. Genza shot past them, laughing. Mirar could not help chuckling as she deftly sent her boat leaping off the crests of dunes and skimmed down their sides, showing skill probably gained over many more years than a mortal could ever hope to dedicate to the art.