[Age of the Five 03] - Voice of the Gods

by Trudi Canavan

  The courtyard was fringed by a veranda. He made appreciative comments as she pointed out the fountain and told him that it both helped cool the air and the noise made discussions more private. As they continued deeper into the Sanctuary he noted how the Servants paused to watch her, tracing a sign over their chest if she happened to look their way. He sensed admiration and respect—even adoration—from them.

  He also sensed curiosity directed toward himself and wondered how much they knew about him. Were they curious because Dreamweavers weren’t often seen in the Sanctuary? Did they wonder if he was the legendary, immortal founder of the Dreamweavers, or did they already know who he was, having been told Genza was bringing him here?

  Genza guided him along corridors and through courtyards, climbing ever upward. Occasionally he glimpsed the city from a window or balcony, and each time the view was more impressive. As they continued further into the Sanctuary Mirar felt a nagging uneasiness.

  I’m completely at a disadvantage here, he mused. The Voices may be more powerful than me. Even if not individually, they would be if united. They’re surrounded by hundreds, maybe thousands, of mortal sorcerers willing to do their bidding.

  I expected that. What I didn’t expect was that this place would be such a maze. Without Genza I’d be completely lost.

  Yet he did not feel in danger here. The noises of the city were distant, he sensed no threatening emotions from the Servants he passed, and the sprawling design of the Sanctuary, with its many courtyards and corridors open to the air, suggested a place of relaxation and tranquillity. Still, this was also a place of political and magical strength, and he did not let the subtle magical barrier about himself fall.

  At last Genza stepped out of a corridor onto a long, wide balcony occupied by several men and women sitting in reed chairs. All looked up at him, their gazes bright with interest.

  “This is Mirar, leader of the Dreamweavers,” Genza told them. She glanced at him. “Dreamweaver Mirar, this is Second Voice Imenja.”

  The woman she gestured to was tall and slim. It was hard to guess her physical age.

  This was the one who faltered during the last war, allowing Auraya to kill Kuar, he thought.

  She smiled politely. “I am pleased to meet you at last. Genza has found much to praise about you.”

  Mirar inclined his head. “A pleasure to meet you, too, Second Voice.”

  “This is Third Voice Vervel,” Genza continued, waving at a man with a robust build.

  I remember him from the war, but I know nothing about him. I’ll have to fix that.

  “This is Fifth Voice Shar.”

  The slim, handsome young man with the blond hair smiled, and Mirar nodded in reply.

  He’s the one who breeds the vorn. The one the southern Dreamweavers say can be cruel.

  Genza then introduced the others. They were “Companions” and their roles were as assistants and advisers to the Voices. The Twins and Auraya had already told him about them.

  “Join us, Dreamweaver Mirar,” Second Voice Imenja invited, gesturing to an empty chair.

  Mirar sat down and accepted a glass of water from one of the Companions.

  “We have been discussing, of all things, war,” Imenja told him.

  “Any particular war?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “All wars. Warfare as a subject. Dreamweavers do not fight wars, do they?”

  “No. We acknowledge the need for a person or country to defend themselves, but our vow to never do harm prevents us from fighting ourselves.”

  “So you don’t approve of our invasion of Northern Ithania, but would approve of us defending ourselves if we were invaded?” Imenja asked.

  He nodded.

  “Yet your people don’t help in the defense of their country.”

  “We do only by healing the wounded.”

  “You heal the wounded of both sides.”

  “Yes. My people honor their vows to heal all those in need as much as their loyalty to their homeland, knowing that Dreamweavers everywhere would do the same.”

  “I see.”

  “Surely this causes conflicts between Dreamweavers and the people of their land?” the woman’s Companion asked. “Don’t people resent Dreamweavers for helping the enemy?”

  “Of course.” Mirar smiled. “As often as someone may be grateful to a Dreamweaver of their enemy’s land for saving one of their own.”

  “The White and Circlians have caused your people great harm,” Vervel said. “Would your people fight them?”

  Mirar shook his head. “No.”

  “Not to escape oppression? Not for the freedom to follow your own ways?”

  “Not even if we thought either was possible. We might kill all of the White, but the gods would soon find replacements.”

  “So you believe the Circlian gods are real?” Imenja asked.

  Mirar smiled ruefully. “I know it. A reliable source of mine assures me yours are too.”

  The Voices looked at each other, each glance swift and meaningful.

  “If we defeated the White,” Vervel said. “If all Circlians became Pentadrians, the Circlian gods would not find anyone willing to take the place of the White.”

  “Ah, if only that were true!” Mirar sighed. “Unfortunately it would require every single Circlian to willingly reject their gods and convert to yours.”

  “They might, in time,” Shar said. “Of course, there would be followers of the Circle meeting in secret, rebels and such. We would have to hunt them down and—”

  “The point is, with us in control, your people would be free to live as they pleased,” Vervel interrupted. “Surely that is worth bending a few rules for?”

  Mirar shook his head. “The trouble is, it is not some minor rule, but our primary law and principle.”

  “But they tried to kill you,” Genza reminded him.

  Mirar met the woman’s gaze. “And your people arranged for Dreamweavers in Jarime to be murdered so that Priests would be blamed.”

  Genza’s eyes narrowed slightly, then she turned to look at Imenja.

  “I guess we are lucky that your people don’t take sides,” Imenja said quietly. “Rest assured that not all of us were in favor of that sordid little scheme.” He noticed that the woman’s Companion was staring at her mistress, radiating suspicion and horror. “We do not intend to repeat that mistake. However, I’m sure the White would attempt to kill you again, if they could.”

  Mirar laughed darkly. “I know. They’ve already tried.”

  Imenja’s eyes brightened with interest. “Recently? Is that why you came to Southern Ithania?”

  “Yes. And now I find the very woman they sent to execute me is here, being treated as an honored guest.”

  He noted which faces betrayed surprise and which did not. Imenja was smiling.

  “You know Auraya’s here?” Genza asked. “And you still came?”

  Mirar shrugged. “Of course I know. The city is full of gossip—and Dreamweavers.”

  Imenja chuckled. “And Nekaun has hardly kept her a secret.” She looked at Mirar and sobered. “You’re in no danger. We will not allow her to harm you. And it seems we need not fear you will harm her.” She watched him closely, probably looking for signs that he might make an exception to his rule against violence. “In a week she will be gone.”

  Mirar nodded.

  “There is no need for you two to meet. Perhaps you would prefer to avoid her,” she continued. He sensed disappointment from the Companions and resisted a smile. Clearly they were curious to see what might happen if he and Auraya encountered one another.

  As am I, he thought. To know she is this close and not see her once…Surely there would be no harm in meeting.

  “I don’t care,” he said. “In fact, it would be satisfying to let her see me, alive and well treated by her enemy.”

  Imenja chuckled again. “That, too, can be arranged.”

  32

  Dreamweaver Mirar is a good-looking man, Rei
van thought as she watched him and Imenja stroll toward the Sanctuary flame. Not my type, though. He looks like a northerner, and there’s something else…

  He reminded her of a Thinker she had once been infatuated with as a young woman. The Thinker he reminded her of had appeared at a meeting one day and charmed everybody. A few months later he vanished. In the following years he arrived and left unannounced numerous times. Every time he visited Glymma he found himself a different pretty girl, then discarded her. Reivan had felt jealous at first, then sympathy for the girls who had been promised so much but were left broken-hearted, sometimes burdened with an occupied womb.

  Mirar had a confidence about him that drew people, and it was this that reminded her of the Thinker. He had the same restlessness in his gaze, as if he were always planning his next destination. Yet while the Thinker had moved whenever there was something to escape, she imagined Mirar simply drifted about, observing whatever he encountered, then drifted on.

  He doesn’t hurry, she thought suddenly. That’s the difference. And why would he, when he’s immortal?

  That was what most fascinated her. The Voices were immortal because the gods wanted them to be. Mirar had somehow achieved it without help. She itched to ask him how, even though she doubted she would understand the answer.

  He and Imenja had been standing before the Sanctuary flame. Now they turned and walked back toward Reivan.

  “…ever blown out?”

  “A few times. We haven’t hidden the fact. People can be superstitious about such matters. They might think that if the flame went out the world would end, or something equally ridiculous, if we didn’t tell them it happens occasionally. As it is, they still try to find some significance to the few occurrences they know of.”

  Mirar chuckled. “I imagine they do.” He looked up. “Is that a Siyee?”

  Following his gaze, Reivan saw a winged figure circling upward.

  “Yes,” Imenja said. “One of the group we are holding prisoner. They attacked one of our villages. Nekaun is letting them go, one by one, in exchange for Auraya staying here.”

  Mirar nodded. “I heard about that. It is wise, letting them go separately. They can’t easily band together and attack again.”

  “Yes.”

  “You must be treating them well,” he added. “Or by now they would not be able to fly. Are you giving them supplies to get them home?”

  “They can’t carry enough to last all the way to Si, unfortunately, but what we give them should sustain them until they reach Sennon.”

  Imenja ushered him to the staircase that led down from the Sanctuary flame into the buildings below. Following them, Reivan heard voices coming from somewhere ahead in the corridor. Mirar and Imenja turned a corner and stopped. As she reached them, Reivan recognized the voices and a shiver ran over her skin. She looked at Mirar. His mouth was set in a smile. His eyes were bright—perhaps with fear, perhaps amusement.

  Reivan looked at the object of his attention. Auraya stared back at Mirar through narrowed eyes. She stood very still, as if frozen. Nekaun gave Imenja a very direct look, then turned to Auraya and opened his mouth to speak—but he did not get a chance.

  “Mirar,” Auraya said, her voice full of contempt. “I see you’ve arrived.”

  “I have,” he replied, glancing at Imenja. “And received a warm reception.”

  “I would expect nothing less of our hosts.”

  Auraya’s gaze was intense, but Mirar did not flinch.

  “I would have expected otherwise based on the rude reception I received in the north,” Mirar said airily. “But then I thought ‘it has to be better in the south, because it could hardly be worse.’”

  Auraya smiled. “They just haven’t got to know you yet.”

  Mirar’s smile faded slightly, and a small crease appeared between his brows.

  “How are the Siyee faring these days?”

  “Well,” Auraya said shortly.

  “The White finding them useful allies?”

  “Of course.”

  “I hear their latest mission failed.”

  “I’m afraid that’s old news here.”

  “Yes,” Mirar agreed. “I suppose I have the White to thank for this opportunity to meet you again—under much more enjoyable circumstances, too.” He looked at Imenja. “I hope there will be time for us to converse again, before you leave. Perhaps over dinner?”

  “It can be arranged,” Imenja replied mildly.

  “Perhaps a quiet, private dinner,” Auraya said, her eyes gleaming. “Just the two of us. We could resume our previous conversation. Pick up again from where we stopped.”

  “I’m sure my new friends would like the opportunity to join in,” Mirar replied. “Especially when you are leaving so soon. They have first claim on you, since your time here is finite and mine is not.”

  Nekaun chuckled. “Dreamweaver Mirar is right. We still have much to show you, and your time here is fast dwindling.” He looked at Imenja. “Perhaps we can all meet at dinner tonight.”

  “I’ll see to it,” she replied.

  “Now, I have another trip outside the city to take you on.” Nekaun touched Auraya’s shoulder lightly and she tore her eyes from Mirar’s smug expression to look at the First Voice. “It will take half of the day to get there, so we should leave without delay.”

  Mirar watched Auraya leave, his eyes narrowed, but as Imenja turned to him he looked at her and smiled broadly. She nodded at a corridor leading in another direction. “Would you like to see the Star Room, where we hold our ceremonies?”

  He nodded. “Sounds fascinating.”

  As they set off at a leisurely stroll, Reivan analyzed the conversation between Mirar and Auraya.

  “I would have expected otherwise based on the rude reception I received in the north.”

  “They just haven’t got to know you yet.”

  Auraya won that exchange, Reivan mused. The former White had insinuated that Mirar made himself unwelcome wherever he went. She might have a point.

  Mirar had made a veiled jibe about the White sending the Siyee on a doomed mission, but Auraya hadn’t appeared ruffled. Then Mirar had taunted her, pointing out that she could do nothing to him here.

  “…Just the two of us. Pick up again from where we stopped.”

  Reivan caught the chuckle that welled up inside her. Auraya won that exchange, too, she thought. She all but pointed out that his safety depended on us, and that she was willing to kill him if the Voices gave her the chance. But Mirar had the last word, I think. What did he say again?

  “I’m sure my new friends would like the opportunity to join in…your time here is finite and mine is not.”

  She frowned. Had Mirar guessed that the Voices didn’t intend to let Auraya leave? Or was he merely pointing out that the Voices had more reason to protect him than her, since he was immortal and would be a more useful ally in the long term?

  He’s smart enough to have guessed the Voices’ plans, Reivan decided. Anyone who thought the situation through carefully could have.

  But had Auraya?

  Mischief leapt up onto the mattress. He spent a few minutes roaming about, assessing the best position to sleep according to merits only he understood. When he found a satisfactory place, he curled up and sighed.

  Staring at the ceiling, Auraya considered what she had reported to Juran that evening. Or rather, what she hadn’t reported.

  :Mirar is here, she had told him. We encountered each other in one of those accidental crossing of paths that obviously wasn’t accidental.

  :What happened?

  :Nothing. He pointed out that the Voices would protect him and that the Siyee mission was doomed.

  :I fear he is right on both counts.

  She hadn’t told Juran about her and Mirar’s agreement to act as if they were enemies. It would make it obvious that she didn’t consider Mirar an enemy, and that would hardly please Juran. She didn’t want to give him any further reason to distrust her.
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  Now she had the last task of the evening left. Each night since she had first dream-linked with Mirar they had communicated the same way. Tonight they would have much to discuss. Closing her eyes, she sought the state of mind she needed.

  :Auraya.

  It took her a moment to realize she must have fallen asleep straightaway.

  :Mirar?

  :At last! How late do you turn in?

  She felt amusement at his impatience.

  :As late as I wish.

  :Ah. It’s like that, is it? Got all haughty since the Voices started treating you as an honored guest?

  :Only when I need to. Did we do well today?

  :It was a start.

  :Ha! I came up with the best snappy replies!

  :I had the last word.

  :You did, she agreed.

  :So where were you tonight? I was looking forward to continuing over dinner.

  :Didn’t Imenja explain? We roamed so far from the city that we couldn’t get back in time.

  :Is that the truth, then?

  :Yes. Of course, Nekaun and I might have spent a little longer than necessary inspecting the glassmakers’ workshops.

  :Well, I suppose the Voices expect you to avoid me.

  :And I’m afraid I’ll run out of snappy replies if we meet too often.

  :You have a collection of them, then?

  :A handful. All waiting for the right moment.

  :Who’d have thought you’d have such a talent for bitchiness?

  :Thanks. So have the Voices made you any offers yet?

  :No. They questioned me about the Dreamweaver law against violence the day I arrived. Maybe my answer put them off.

  :Hmm. Remember, even if they don’t offer to kill me for you, they might still offer to kill you for me.

  :Then they’re being remarkably good at hiding it. We’ve been talking a lot about the Dreamweavers and my place among them. Whether I am a leader or guide. Imenja said that whether I want to be their leader or not, Dreamweavers regard me with reverence. The trouble with being dead for a while is people have a gilded image of you in their minds. I assured her that I never let them worship me before, and I will not now. She said she believed me.