[Age of the Five 02] - Last of the Wilds Read online

  Unlike the tunnels higher up in the mountains, which were straight and wide, these were narrow and twisted. They turned not just left and right, but rose up and down, often sharply. The air was growing ever more moist and heavy. Several times Imenja called for a stop so that Servants had time to draw fresher air down into these depths.

  Then, quite abruptly, the walls of the tunnel widened and Imenja’s light illuminated an enormous cavern.

  Reivan drew in a quick breath. All around were fantastic pale columns, some as thin as a finger, others wider than the ancient trees of Dekkar. Some had joined to form curtains, others had broken, and mushroom-like tops had formed over their stumps. Everything glistened with moisture.

  Looking over her shoulder, Reivan saw that Imenja was smiling. The Second Voice walked past the Thinkers and into the cavern, gazing up at the formations.

  “We will rest here for a while,” she announced. Her smile faded and she looked at the Thinkers pointedly before turning away and leading the army into the enormous space.

  Reivan looked at Hitte and the reason for Imenja’s meaningful glance became clear. His forehead was creased with worry. As she watched, the Thinkers moved away from the line of people entering the cavern and began talking in hushed tones.

  She moved closer and managed to catch enough words to confirm her suspicions. Hitte didn’t know where he was. He had thought to avoid further traps by entering natural tunnels, where interference by a saboteur ought to be more obvious, but the tunnels hadn’t joined with manmade ways again as he’d hoped. He feared they were now lost.

  Reivan sighed and moved away. If she heard any more she might say something she’d regret. Winding her way through the formations, she found that the cavern was even larger than it first appeared. The sounds of the gathering army faded behind her as she made her way between the columns, climbing over uneven ground and wading through puddles. Imenja’s light cast all into either brightness or inky shadows. In one place the floor widened and pools had formed curved terraces. Reivan took note of openings that might be tunnels.

  While examining one of these a low, wordless sound came from somewhere behind her. She froze and cast about, wondering if someone had followed her. The voice grew louder and more urgent, turning into an angry moaning. Was it the trap-layer? A local out for revenge—unable to attack an army but not afraid to deal justice out to an individual? She found herself panting with fear, wishing desperately that she hadn’t left the army or that her magical Skills weren’t so small she could barely make one tiny, pathetic spark.

  If someone had followed her with ill intentions, however, they wouldn’t announce their presence by moaning loudly. She forced her breathing to slow. If this wasn’t a voice, what was it?

  As the answer came, she laughed aloud at her own foolishness.

  The wind. It is vibrating through these tunnels like breath through a pipe.

  Now that she was paying attention, she could detect a stirring of air. She stooped to wet her hands in a pool, then moved toward the sound, holding her hands out before her. A breeze chilled her wet skin, leading her to a large opening at one side of the cavern where it became a stronger current of air.

  Smiling to herself, she started back toward the army.

  She was surprised to find she had wandered a long way. By the time she reached the army all five sections had arrived and were crowding about the formations. Something was wrong, however. Instead of wonder and amazement, their faces were tight with fear. For such a large gathering of people, they were too quiet.

  Had the Thinkers let slip their situation? Or had the Voices decided to tell the army that they were lost? As Reivan drew near, she saw the four Voices standing up on a ledge. They seemed as calm and confident as they always did. Imenja looked down and met Reivan’s eyes.

  Then the moaning sound came again. It was fainter here and harder to distinguish as wind. Reivan heard gasps and muttered prayers from the army and understood what had frightened the men and women so much. At the same time she saw Imenja’s mouth tighten with amusement.

  “It is the Aggen! The monster!” someone exclaimed.

  Reivan covered her mouth to hide a laugh and noted the other Thinkers smiling. The rest of the army appeared to give this idea credence, however. Men and women crowded together, some crying out in fear.

  “We’ll be eaten!”

  “We’ve entered its lair!”

  She sighed. Everyone had heard the legend of the Aggen, a giant beast that was supposed to live under these mountains and eat anyone foolish enough to enter the mines. There were even carvings of it in the older mines with little offering alcoves below—as if something that big could be satisfied by an offering that would fit into such a small space.

  Or survive at all. No creature as big as this Aggen could possibly live off the occasional foolish explorer. If it could, then it was a lot smaller than the legends claimed.

  “People of the Gods.” Imenja’s voice rang out in the chamber and her words echoed into the distance as if chasing after the moaning.

  “Do not fear. I sense no minds here other than our own. This noise is only the wind. It rushes through these caves like breath through a pipe—but not as tuneful,” she added with a smile. “There is no monster here but our own imagination. Think, instead, of the fresh air this wind brings. Rest and enjoy the marvel that surrounds you.”

  The army had quietened. Now Reivan heard soldiers mimicking the noise or mocking those who had spoken their fears aloud. A Servant approached Reivan.

  “Thinker Reivan? The Second Voice wishes to speak to you,” the man said.

  Reivan felt her heart skip a beat. She hurried after the man. The other Voices regarded her with interest as she reached the ledge.

  “Thinker Reivan,” Imenja said. “Have you discovered a way out?”

  “Maybe. I have found a tunnel through which the wind is rushing. That wind may come from outside, but we will not know if the tunnel is passable until we explore.”

  “Then explore it,” Imenja ordered. “Take two Servants with you. They will provide light and communicate to me if the tunnel proves useful.”

  “I will, holy one,” Reivan replied. She traced the symbol of the gods over her chest, then moved away. Two Servants, a man and a woman, strode forward to meet her. She nodded to them politely before leading them away.

  She found the tunnel again easily and entered it. The floor was uneven and they had to climb steep inclines in places. The moaning grew louder until the sound vibrated through her. The two Servants smelled of sweat though the wind was cold, but they said nothing of their fears. Their magical lights were perhaps a little too bright, but Reivan did not complain.

  When the sound was at its most deafening she was dismayed to see the tunnel narrowed ahead. She waited for the wind to diminish, then moved sideways through the gap. The Servants stopped, looking uncertain.

  The gap shrank until rock was pressing against Reivan’s chest and back. Ahead it curved into darkness.

  “Can you bring that light in further?” Reivan called.

  “You’ll have to guide me,” came the reply.

  The little spark of light floated past Reivan’s head, then stopped.

  “Where now?”

  “A bit to the right,” she called back.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” the other Servant called. “What if you get stuck?”

  “I’ll get unstuck,” she replied, hoping she was right. Don’t think about it. “Forward and a bit more to the right. That’s it…now left—not so fast.”

  With the light near the end of the curve, she could see that the tunnel widened again. It might narrow later, but she wouldn’t know until she got there. She pushed on, felt the constriction ease, shuffled around the bend…

  …and sighed with relief as she saw that the tunnel continued to widen ahead. Within a few steps she could stretch her arms out and not touch either side. Ahead, it turned to the right. Her surroundings were no longer
illuminated by the Servant’s magical light, which was still within the narrow gap behind her, but by a faint light coming from beyond the turn. She hurried forward, nearly tripping over the uneven ground. As she reached the turn, she gasped with relief. The tunnel walls ended at a patch of green and gray.

  Rock and trees. Outside.

  Smiling, she walked back to where the tunnel narrowed and told the Servants what she had found.

  Reivan watched as the army spilled out of the tunnel. As each man and woman emerged they paused to glance around, relief written in their faces, before starting along the narrow trail leading to the top of the ravine. So many had passed she had lost count of them.

  Servants had widened the tunnel with magic. The White Forest, as Imenja had dubbed it, would no longer be haunted by moaning winds. It was a shame, but few in the army would have been able to wriggle through the narrow gap as Reivan had.

  A team of slaves began to emerge. They looked as pleased to be out of the mines as the rest. At the end of this journey they would be freed and offered paid work. Serving in the war had earned them a reduced sentence. Even so, she doubted any of them would boast about their part in this failed attempt to defeat the Circlians.

  Defeat is probably far from anyone’s minds right now, she mused. They’re just happy to see sunlight. Soon all they will be worrying about is getting across the desert.

  “Thinker Reivan,” a familiar voice said from close by.

  She jumped and turned to face Imenja.

  “I’m sorry, holy one. I didn’t hear you approach.”

  Imenja smiled. “Then I should apologize for sneaking up on you.” She looked at the slaves, but her gaze was distant. “I sent the rest of the Thinkers ahead to find a path down to the desert.”

  “Should I have joined them?”

  “No, I wish to talk to you.”

  Imenja paused as the casket containing Kuar’s body emerged from the tunnel. She watched it pass, then sighed deeply.

  “I don’t believe Skill should be an essential requirement of all Servants of the Gods. Most, perhaps, but we should also recognize that some men and women have other talents to offer us.”

  Reivan caught her breath. Surely Imenja was not about to…

  “Would you choose to become a Servant of the Gods, if it were offered?”

  A Servant of the Gods? What Reivan had dreamed of all her life?

  Imenja turned to look at Reivan as she struggled to find her voice.

  “I…I would be honored, holy one,” she gasped.

  Imenja smiled. “Then it shall be so, on our return.”

  PART ONE

  1

  The man standing near the window all but reeked of fear.

  He hovered a few steps away from the panes, challenging himself to overcome his dread of heights and step closer, to look down from the Tower window at the ground far below.

  Danjin did this every day. Auraya didn’t like to stop him. It took a lot of courage for him to confront his fear. The trouble was, being able to read his mind meant that she felt his anxiety and was distracted from whatever she was trying to concentrate on—at the moment a long and boring letter from a trader asking for the White to enact a law that would make him the only man able to trade with the Siyee legally.

  Turning away from the window, Danjin found her looking at him and frowned.

  “No, you didn’t miss something I said,” she replied.

  He smiled, relieved. Reading minds was a habit for her now. The thoughts of others were so easily detectable that she had to concentrate in order not to hear them. The normal flow of conversation felt frustratingly slow as a result. She knew what somebody was going to say before they said it and had to hold back from replying until the words were spoken. To answer a question before a speaker had the chance to ask it was rude. It made her feel like an actor, anticipating and delivering lines.

  With Danjin, however, she was able to relax. Her adviser accepted her mind-reading as part of what she was and did not take offense if she reacted to his thoughts as if he had spoken them aloud. For that she was grateful.

  Danjin moved to a chair and sat down. He looked at the letter in her hands.

  “Have you finished?” he asked.

  “No.” She looked down and forced herself to continue reading. When she had finished she looked up at Danjin again. His gaze was distant and she smiled as she saw the direction his thoughts had taken.

  I can’t believe it’s been a year already, he mused. A year since I became an Adviser to the White. As he noticed her watching him his eyes brightened.

  “How will you be celebrating the end of your first year as White tomorrow?” he asked.

  “I suppose we’ll get together for dinner,” Auraya replied. “And we will be meeting in the Altar, too.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Perhaps the gods will congratulate you in person.”

  She shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps it will just be us White.” She leaned back in her chair. “Juran will probably want to review the year’s events.”

  “Then he has a lot to review.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “I hope not every year of my life as a White is that exciting. First the Somreyan alliance, then living in Si, then the war. I wouldn’t mind visiting other lands, or returning to Somrey and Si, but I would prefer it if I never had to go to war again.”

  He grimaced in agreement. “I wish I could say with certainty that it was unlikely in my lifetime.” But I can’t, he finished silently.

  She nodded. “So do I.” We can only trust that the gods had good reason to order us to let the Pentadrian sorcerers live. With their strongest sorcerer dead, the Pentadrians are weaker than the Circlian forces—for now. They have only to find another to replace him to become a threat to Northern Ithania again.

  Once she would have been unconcerned. Sorcerers as powerful as the leaders of the Pentadrians were not born often—perhaps once every hundred years. That five had risen to power in Southern Ithania in the same generation was extraordinary. The White couldn’t risk hoping that another hundred years would pass before the Pentadrians found a sorcerer strong enough to replace Kuar.

  We should have killed the four that survived, Auraya thought. But the battle was over. It would have seemed like murder. I have to admit, I would rather we White were known for our compassion than for ruthlessness. Perhaps that is the gods’ intention, too.

  She looked down at the ring on her hand. Through it the gods heightened her natural magical strength and gave her Gifts that few sorcerers had ever possessed. It was a plain white band—nothing extraordinary—and her hand looked just as it had the year before. Many years would pass before it became apparent that she hadn’t aged a day since she had put it on.

  Her fellow White had lived far longer. Juran had been the first to be chosen over a hundred years before. He had seen everyone he had known before his Choosing grow old and die. She could not imagine what that must be like.

  Dyara had been next, then Mairae and Rian, each chosen at twenty-five-year intervals. Even Rian had been immortal long enough that people who remembered him from before his Choosing must notice that he had not aged a day since.

  “I have heard rumors that the Sennon emperor tore up the alliance he signed with the Pentadrians within hours of their defeat,” Danjin said. “Do you know if it is true?”

  Auraya looked up at him and chuckled. “So the rumor is spreading. We’re not sure if it is true yet. The emperor sent all of our priests and priestesses out of Sennon after signing it, so none were there to witness if he tore it up.”

  “Apparently a Dreamweaver was,” Danjin said. “Have you spoken to Dreamweaver Adviser Raeli lately?”

  “Not since we returned.” Since the war, she felt like someone had touched a healing wound whenever anyone mentioned Dreamweavers. Thinking of them always turned her mind to Leiard.

  She looked away as a flood of memories overwhelmed her. Some were of the white-haired and bearded man who had lived in the fo
rest near her home village—the man who had taught her so much of cures, the world and magic. Some memories were more recent, and were of the man she had made her adviser in Dreamweaver matters, defying the general prejudice of Circlians against those who followed the cult. Her mind then teased her with glimpses of more intimate moments: the night before she had left for Si when they had become lovers, the dream links in which they had communicated their desires, and the secret meetings in his tent as they both travelled separately to battle: her to fight; him to heal the wounded.

  Finally she felt a chill as the memory of the brothel camp came. She had found Leiard there after Juran had discovered their affair and sent him away. She could still see it in her mind’s eye, viewed from above, the tents bathed in gold morning light.

  The thought she had read from his mind repeated in her own. It isn’t that I don’t think Auraya’s attractive or smart or good-natured. She’s just not worth all this trouble.

  He had been right, in a way. Their affair was bound to cause scandal and strife if it became publicly known. It was selfish to pursue their own pleasure when people might suffer if it were discovered.

  Knowing that hadn’t lessened the shock of seeing no love or regret in his mind that day. The love she had sensed in him so many times, that she had risked so much for, had died, killed all too easily by fear. I should thank Juran for that, she told herself. If Leiard was so easily frightened out of love, then something or someone else would have killed it sooner or later anyway. Anyone who loves a White has to be more resilient than that. I will know to avoid such weaknesses in a man next time, and the sooner I forget Leiard the sooner I will find a…a…

  What? She shook her head. It was too soon to be thinking of new lovers. If she fell in love again would it drive her into more irresponsible, shameful acts? No, she was better occupied with work.

  Danjin was watching her patiently, and his suspicions about her thoughts were far too accurate. She straightened and met his eyes.