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 smiled. 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.
A huge carpet covered the floor and several woven reed chairs had been arranged upon it. On small, low tables were bowls of nuts and dried fruit and jugs of water. A Servant traced the symbol of the star as Imenja turned toward him. He lowered his eyes and gestured to a door flap.
Imenja pushed the flap aside, then held it open for Reivan to catch as she moved inside. Carpet covered the floor and trunks lay beside a large bed.
“Where will I sleep?” Reivan asked.
“There should be a tent for you nearby.”
Reivan nodded.
“Are your accommodations to your satisfaction?”
They turned to find Nekaun standing in the doorway, smiling. Reivan’s skin crawled at the sight of him.
“I hardly know I’ve left the Sanctuary,” Imenja said dryly.
Nekaun’s smile widened. “You will tomorrow.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Food has arrived. Come and eat.”
He retreated from the door. Reivan turned back to Imenja and found the woman smiling.
“Good to see he no longer has a hold on you,” she murmured. “Though I wish that hadn’t come about in such a painful way.”
Reivan blinked in surprise, then nodded as she realized Imenja was right. She no longer felt a thrill of admiration and weakness when she saw Nekaun. She no longer craved his attention. Ever since...
She shuddered as she remembered that last time. He had revealed a cruel, malicious side that she was both glad and a little worried that she would never forget. Now when she saw him she felt repulsed.
Imenja moved past, patting Reivan on the shoulder as she did.
“Let’s eat.”
Following her mistress out, Reivan saw that the other Voices and their Companions had arrived. Domestics were carrying platters of steaming food into the room, filling the air with delicious smells. She sat down beside
Imenja and began to eat. Dedicated Servants and even a few Thinkers entered. Nekaun made a small speech, telling them that while they feasted the Circlians were wearily making their final march of a long and exhausting journey, only to be defeated tomorrow.
Talk circulated around war. A Dedicated Servant reported that several Circlian supply ships had been sunk. During general chatter Reivan overheard the Thinkers discussing a giant sea creature that had been sighted swimming in the Gulf of Sorrow. They wanted to kill and examine it.
“If you do, we will withdraw our support in this war,” a loud, deep voice with a thick accent boomed.
All turned toward the entrance. Reivan’s heart leapt with recognition. Looking around, she could see the effect the imposing figure of the Elai king was having on those who had never seen an Elai before.
Even if King Ais had been a landwalker, his height, the size of his chest and the gold jewellery he wore would have made him an intimidating figure. His blue-black skin, complete hairlessness, double-lidded eyes and webbed hands and feet just added a strangeness that some might find fascinating and others repellent. The king moved into the room, his eyes narrowing at the Thinkers.
“The ru-al is an ancient and benign creature of the sea, and though we would gain enough food from one creature to feed many, many families we Elai do not hunt them. To kill one for the sake of curiosity would be...” The Elai king shook his head. “It would be both wasteful and cruel.”
“Nobody is going to kill the creature,” Nekaun assured him. He moved forward to meet the king. “Welcome to Avven and the Pentadrian war camp, King Ais. I hope your journey was not difficult.”
As the two leaders continued with formal pleasantries Reivan looked away again. People were listening to and staring at the Elai king in fascination. Nekaun glanced away from the king and frowned, and those who were staring quickly turned away and struck up conversations.
“King Ais has learned Avvenan well,” Imenja noted. Reivan nodded. The Second Voice looked around the room, then turned to Vervel.
“Where is Mirar?” she asked quietly.
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