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

by Trudi Canavan

  I can’t blame him for deciding to take this path, she thought. He must stay on good terms with the Voices for the sake of his people. And if the White win, Dreamweavers in Southern Ithania will be treated as they are in the north. Even though the situation is improving in the north, it will take years for people to come close to respecting Dreamweavers like the Pentadrians do. And they may never do so.

  Yet she did not want the White to die. Or for Northern Ithania to be taken over by the Pentadrians. The thought of Nekaun ruling the north made her feel nauseous.

  :We are leaving Glymma today, Mirar told her. It will take less than a day to reach the Isthmus. Last night Second Voice Imenja promised me that they would give you to me in exchange for my help, after the battle. I have no idea how long this battle will last. The Isthmus will lessen the numbers of soldiers that can face each other at once. The Dunwayan fleet and Pentadrian warships don’t have that problem, of course, so maybe it will be a sea battle. Then there’s the White and the Voices. Will they fight at the same time on the ships or Isthmus, or wait until later?

  :If the Voices have the magical advantage, they will force the White to fight them from the start, Auraya said. Fewer of their own people will die.

  :True.

  :If your help brings about a quick conclusion, at least you will be saving mortal lives.

  :I hope so. He hesitated. I have sent out a message to my own people subtly suggesting they use their magic in defense of whichever side they wish to support, Pentadrian or Circlian.

  :How will the Voices react to this? They will suspect you ordered it!

  :I will point out that while I can’t give them orders, I also can’t prevent my people emulating me. I could hardly forbid them to do something I am doing. And the advantage is still the Voices’ because I and the Dreamweavers here are stronger than those of my people defending the Circlians.

  :You are too clever for your own good, she told him.

  :Am I? You must tell Emer—…wait. Someone is knocking on my door. I must go.

  :Good luck.

  :You too.

  Then he was gone. Auraya stared at the floor and felt her heart twist.

  I hope he knows what he’s doing. If he dies… She swallowed hard. I think I’d actually regret it. And not just because the last of Leiard dies with him. Or that I’ll probably die, too. I think I’d actually regret knowing Mirar the Wild no longer existed.

  The wide Parade outside the Sanctuary was well-suited for assembling an army. Thousands filled the space. Servants dressed in black robes stood in neat, disciplined rows on one side, soldiers in black uniforms with shining armor stood in rigid formation on the other. Highly decorated litters for the Voices and their Companions and advisers waited before the stairs. Larger four-wheeled tarns laden with supplies were lined up at the distant rear of the assembly.

  It was an impressive sight. If Mirar hadn’t seen entire armies perish before handfuls of sorcerers, he would have thought the Pentadrians sure of victory.

  If it weren’t for a handful of sorcerers, urged on by their gods, would these people even be here? he asked himself. It was an impossible question to answer. The world had never been free of gods, so who could guess how mortals would behave without them? He had seen wars waged for reasons as flimsy as revenge for an insult, or simple greed. Mortals did not need gods to order them to kill each other. They were quite capable of finding reasons to do so themselves.

  First Voice Nekaun stepped forward to address the crowd. Mirar stopped listening after a few sentences. He had heard it all before.

  “What are you thinking about?” a voice said softly at his shoulder.

  He turned to find the Second Voice regarding him.

  “The futility of war,” he replied.

  Imenja smiled. He found her likeable, but she had lived long enough to have refined her skill at putting others at their ease so well it was undetectable.

  “You think this war is futile?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Even if you kill the White and defeat the Circlians, the Circle of Gods will still exist.”

  She nodded. “That is true. What comes after this confrontation will be as important as the battle itself. We hope that, in time, the people of the north will see our ways are better and kinder, and will embrace the Five. There will always be those who continue to worship the Circle, but the Circle’s power over Northern Ithania will be diminished.”

  “So not entirely futile, in your view,” he finished.

  She smiled again. “No. But I would understand if you wished we could kill the Circlian gods as well. It would make the world much safer for you. What are you smiling at?”

  Mirar chuckled. “Just the thought of you killing the Circlian gods for me.” And that if we immortals allowed the Voices and the White to “discover” how to do it, we might only have to sit back and watch them both rid the world of our problems.

  Which might not be a bad fallback plan if no opportunity to free Auraya came, or she refused to help. He had not been able to find a way to free Auraya except forcing his way into her prison himself, which would certainly spoil the goodwill between the Voices and himself, and perhaps for his people too. The best option for Dreamweavers was to hope Imenja kept her promise.

  However, if the Voices won the battle there might be no White left to attack the Pentadrian gods. Still, the Voices could kill the Circlian ones, and that might be all the Wilds needed. The Pentadrians ones didn’t seem too bad so far.

  Nekaun fell silent and the crowd cheered. Making an expensive gesture, he indicated that Imenja and the other Voices should follow him down to the litters. Imenja’s smile altered slightly, and Mirar was sure it was now forced.

  As the Voices descended he followed a few steps behind, among the Companions and advisers. A few steps from the vehicles Genza glanced back at him, her eyes narrow and thoughtful.

  “Would you mind if the Dreamweaver travelled with me, First Voice?” she asked. “You know I find long journeys tedious.”

  Nekaun paused to regard her, his eyebrows high. “It’s hardly a long journey,” he said. Turning to Mirar, he smiled politely. “Dreamweaver Mirar, would you honor me with your company as we set out?”

  “The honor is mine,” Mirar replied smoothly.

  Genza shrugged. “Perhaps later, when all the talk of violence and strategy begins to bore him.”

  They settled onto the litters, which were each lifted by several muscular slaves dressed in finery. The army could see their leaders clearly. And me, Mirar thought grimly. He had explored the dreams of Dreamweavers last night. Their reaction to his deal with the Voices was mixed. Some disliked it, some did not. All but a few believed he had been forced to make the deal, probably by circumstances, perhaps by a more direct threat.

  “Don’t let Genza make you feel…obligated,” Nekaun said to him as the litter moved forward.

  “I won’t,” Mirar replied, smiling. Genza had stopped flirting with him when they’d arrived at the Sanctuary; Nekaun must not know that.

  “I feel I should warn you. She can be persistent. The more you resist her, the more interesting she will find you.”

  “I know the type,” Mirar assured him dryly.

  Nekaun chuckled. “I’m sure you do. You would also know that she would leave you alone once her curiosity was satisfied. She only wishes to see if your reputation is deserved, as I’m sure many women do.”

  “I am not a slave to my reputation,” Mirar replied.

  “No, you are not. I respect that.” Nekaun’s eyes glittered with satisfaction. “You are a man who knows when to be flexible, and when to be unbending.”

  Mirar stopped himself from grimacing at this reference to his agreement to help the Voices. He smiled slyly. “I thought it was only women who spread such rumors about me.”

  As the litter began to move between the columns of Servants and soldiers, the Parade echoed with Nekaun’s laughter.

  Looking up at the prow of the boat, Tamun smil
ed. Her brother stood straight-shouldered, his hair whipping in the wind. The boat was speeding through the water, propelled by magic, guided by his will. Water sprayed out from either side of the prow and the hull shuddered every time it struck a wave.

  She noted the muscles in his arms, earned by many hours of rowing and poling through the swamp. He had grown more masculine since they had taken up residence there. Her sister had become quite a handsome brother. Why hadn’t she noticed that before?

  Perhaps she spent so much time with him that she never stepped back and looked at him. But the changes were not only physical. And Surim had changed himself slowly to give her time to get used to it. He had become more adventurous, too.

  I guess he couldn’t before, she thought. They had been connected physically as well as mentally. She ran a hand over the scar on her side. As always, the memory of their separation brought pain and sadness, but it had been a relief as well. More for him than me, she admitted. We may be twins, but we are different in many ways. I sit in our cave and resent him for leaving me alone, afraid that if anyone sees me the gods will find me. He explores the swamp, and mingles with the people there sure that the change prevents the gods from recognizing him.

  And now she was far from the Red Caves, far from the swamp, speeding across the water to the very place where thousands of mortals, and perhaps a few immortals, would see her—and the gods were sure to gather. She shivered. It was madness. But it was also inarguably sensible. If they were ever going to kill the gods, they had to be close to them.

  That the opportunity would arise in the next few days was doubtful. If she thought about that too much she felt unpleasantly giddy. Closing her eyes, she stretched out in search of other minds.

  She found some fishermen first. They were returning late from their morning’s work. Next she encountered the crew of a trader ship heading south to supply Diamyane. Several Sennon fighters and a Circlian priest were aboard and Dunwayan warships sailed close by. They were anticipating attempts by Pentadrians to stop supplies reaching the Circlian army.

  Moving further away, she was drawn to the hum of many minds. The Circlian army now marched along the coast. They knew they were a day’s journey from Diamyane. The more experienced priests, priestesses and soldiers looked ahead to the battle with both dread and determination.

  Another shift brought her to their destination. Diamyane was populated by scavengers, Dreamweavers and Sennon troops sent ahead to prepare for the army’s arrival. She sought the minds of the Dreamweavers, then searched for Emerahl in their thoughts. Or the woman Emerahl was pretending to be.

  There she is.

  Tamun smiled at the thoughts of the woman regarding the red-haired stranger. Arleej, official leader of the Dreamweavers, was not sure what to make of Emmea. Mirar had told her to include Emmea in all discussions and plans. The woman was likeable enough, if a bit impatient at times.

  Arleej was relating to Emerahl what had happened when she told Juran of the White of Mirar’s decision that he and all Dreamweavers could use their Gifts to protect whichever side they chose.

  “He turned white,” Arleej said.

  Emerahl chuckled. “What did he say?”

  “He accepted our offer of help. I suspect he wanted to refuse. He must have suspicions of treachery, but since the Circlians are weaker already with Mirar joining their enemy, he has to take that risk.”

  “You aren’t tempted to turn on the Circlians, are you?”

  “No, of course not.” Arleej was amused by the question. “Juran also agreed with my suggestion that some of us follow behind the White when they walk down the Isthmus to meet the Voices, as Mirar is sure to be with the enemy.”

  “I’d like to be a part of that group,” Emerahl said. “Mirar sent me to you because I am strong, and I can help redress the balance of power he’s been forced to upset.”

  Arleej considered, then nodded. “You’re welcome.”

  The conversation turned to practical matters and Tamun wouldn’t be able to dream-link with Emerahl until the woman was asleep, so she moved southward to another mass of minds. The Pentadrian army marched toward the Isthmus. They were half a day from the beginning of the land bridge, but didn’t intend to cross it. It took her longer to find Mirar, as there was only one unshielded mind in his proximity. The woman’s name was Reivan, and her role was as a Companion to the Second Voice, Imenja.

  Reivan regarded Mirar with wary respect. She liked his ideals and dislike of violence, but didn’t think they were practical. Knowing she was in the presence of a man over a thousand years old had her more than a little awed. When she regarded the Pentadrian leader her mind filled with conflicting emotions and thoughts: the lingering remains of infatuation, worry, anger and a slowly but steadily growing hatred.

  :Tamun? Surim?

  Tamun recognized The Gull’s mental voice. Drawing reluctantly away from the Companion, she focused on her fellow immortal.

  :Greetings, Gull. Where are you?

  :Nearing the Gulf of Sorrow. I shall reach the Isthmus tonight.

  :Do you know of the tunnels Emerahl described?

  :Yes. I used them often when they were open.

  :We just have to hope there’s one underneath the place the White meet the Voices.

  :I have thought of a solution to this problem. If I were to collapse a small section of the Isthmus, they would be forced to stand on either side in order to face each other.

  :Ah. Doubts crept in as she considered this. But they will wonder who collapsed it and why. It might make the gods suspicious.

  :It might, he conceded. I could make it look like a natural occurrence.

  :But it would still seem too much of a coincidence.

  :Then I can think of only one other solution.

  :Oh?

  :I will have to carve out a tunnel along the center of the Isthmus, underneath the road.

  :That will take time.

  :A day or so. I will begin at the center, where the White and Voices are most likely to meet. There is only one drawback.

  :What is that?

  :It may cause the Isthmus to collapse anyway. Hopefully in a few years’ time, not while I am inside it.

  :Then you should be careful, Gull. We will find you if it does. We will dig you out, if we must.

  :Then I had best seek lessons on surviving burial from Mirar, he said wryly. I had better go. The roale will forget he is carrying me if I don’t remind him from time to time. I won’t arrive by tonight if he decides to dive.

  As his mind faded from hers, Tamun took a few deep breaths. What they were doing was dangerous in more ways than one. It might not even work. But she would try again and again if it meant freedom from the gods.

  Some risks were worth taking.

  47

  The sun had slipped beneath the horizon a short time ago, sinking with steady purpose as if it patiently went through its paces knowing that tomorrow’s battle would come in good time. A glow filled the western sky, in parts strangely colored. As Reivan walked toward it she wondered if a Thinker somewhere knew why the sky at these times could be such improbable colors like green and purple.

  Then she reached Imenja and stopped. The Second Voice was staring at the Isthmus, which was bathed in the eerie light of the glowing sky. It stretched away into the gloom toward a barely visible shadow.

  Sennon. Northern Ithania.

  “They haven’t arrived yet,” Imenja told her.

  “Will we cross and take Diamyane?” Reivan asked. The possibility had been discussed in several meetings.

  “No. Our advantage lies in remaining here. The Circlians can cross only a few at a time, so we can pick them off easily.”

  “And if the White come at the front of the army?”

  “Then we Voices will fight them.”

  “Making the soldiers unnecessary,” Reivan observed.

  Imenja smiled crookedly. “Yes. Which is not a bad thing. War is not kind to unSkilled mortals.”

  Reivan
shivered. She was an unSkilled mortal. Imenja turned and placed a hand on Reivan’s shoulder.

  “Don’t worry. You will be protected.”

  “I know.” Reivan nodded, then sighed. “But I will also be useless.”

  The glowing sky had dimmed and Imenja’s face was in shadow. Reivan could not see her expression.

  “Not to me,” Imenja said, squeezing Reivan’s shoulder. She looked back. “The tent is up. We should join the others.”

  They walked back into the camp. What had been a dry, dusty stretch of land was now covered in black pointed shapes, fires flickering like orange stars scattered between. Reivan had regarded the tents in dismay when she first saw them being erected. The five-sided design was an unnecessary complication that some of the domestics were finding hard to work out and the black cloth would trap the heat of the sun. Sometimes she wondered if the Pentadrians took their symbolism too far.

  When the sun rose the army wouldn’t be huddling in their overheated tents. They would be spilling blood. Or watching sorcerers throw deadly magic about and hoping they wouldn’t happen to be in the wrong place when it went astray. She thought about what Imenja had said. A fight between only Voices and White sounded too good to be true. But the Servants and priests would not remain out of the battle. They would assist their side with extra magic. Once the Voices defeated the White, or, gods help them, the White defeated the Voices, there would be no point in the Servants or priests continuing the fight. But they might anyway. Just out of loyalty to their gods.

  And what then? Reivan asked herself. Once one side is defeated, what will happen to the armies?

  She doubted that the Voices would just let the Circlians go home, as the White had done with the Pentadrians after the last battle. She also knew that this would be a fight in which the Voices or White would not let their counterparts live.

  Imenja checked her stride, then sighed. Looking up, Reivan saw that they were approaching a large tent. This one was not the plain five-sided shape of the rest, but a star shape. The entrance to the tent was a gap between two of the star’s arms. As she followed Imenja inside she found herself in a five-sided room. In each wall was a door flap. They probably led to the private rooms of the Voices.