[Age of the Five 02] - Last of the Wilds Page 5

  “Good,” Juran replied with satisfaction. “Encourage him, but don’t be too eager.” He looked at Rian and Mairae. “Since Somrey and Dunway aren’t causing you much trouble, I want you to work with Dyara on this one. I doubt we will persuade the emperor to ally with us any time soon. He knows doing so would make his country the Pentadrians’ first target if they declare war on us again. See how much you can get from him while he’s feeling guilty about siding against us.”

  Dyara, Rian and Mairae working together on Sennon, Auraya thought. What about me? The Siyee are no trouble…But of course. There is another country that we seek alliance with.

  Juran turned to her. She smiled.

  “The Elai?”

  “No,” he replied. “I have another task for you, but we will deal with that later. Let us discuss matters beyond our shores. What should we do to avoid a Pentadrian attack in the future?”

  The others exchanged glances.

  “What can we do?” Rian asked. “We let them return to their home, where they are strongest.”

  “Indeed we did,” Juran replied. “So what choices do we have now? We can do nothing and hope they will not regain their strength and attack us again, or we can work toward preventing it.”

  Dyara frowned. “Are you suggesting an alliance? They would never agree to it. They believe us heathens.”

  “In that they are wrong, and that is a weakness we can exploit.” Juran interlocked his fingers. “Our gods are real. Perhaps the Pentadrians would abandon their false gods if they knew this.”

  “How would we convince them?” Rian asked. “Would the gods demonstrate their power if we asked it of them?”

  “So long as we didn’t keep asking them to make an appearance every time we met a Pentadrian,” Juran replied.

  Dyara made a small noise of disagreement. “Would the Pentadrians believe it, or conclude that we had conjured an illusion?”

  Auraya chuckled. “Just as you and Juran have concluded that the Pentadrian god I saw was an illusion?” she asked lightly.

  Dyara frowned, but Juran looked thoughtful. “Perhaps we would have been convinced, if we had been there.”

  “If their gods are real we will have to convince them ours are better,” Mairae said.

  Juran nodded. “Yes. For now we must make the Pentadrians change their mind about us. We must not only convince them that our gods are real, but that we are better befriended than invaded. Everything they dislike about us must be shown to be false. They think us heathens; we prove them wrong. They think us intolerant of other religions;” his eyes flickered to Auraya, “we prove them wrong.”

  Auraya blinked in surprise, but Juran did not pause to explain himself. He leaned forward and clasped his hands together. “I want you all to think about this carefully.” He looked at them each in turn. “Find out what they loathe about us. Make befriending us beneficial to them. We do not want another invasion, and the last thing I fancy doing is conquering the southern continent and having the trouble of trying to rule it.”

  “If it is information we need, we should boost our network of spies,” Rian said.

  “Yes,” Juran agreed. “Do it.”

  He turned to Auraya. “Now for your task.”

  She sat up straighter. “Yes?”

  “The Pentadrians believe we are intolerant of other religions. I want you to continue your work with Dreamweavers. I was impressed with their healing efforts after the battle. Many of the healer priests and priestesses expressed admiration for their skills. They said they learned much just from watching the Dreamweavers. People in this city could benefit from Dreamweaver and Circlian cooperation. I want you to set up a place in which Dreamweaver and healer priests and priestesses can work together.”

  Auraya stared at him, wondering if he knew that this was exactly what she had thought of doing herself. Were his motives as noble as his words suggested? Did he realize the impact this might have on the Dreamweavers?

  The Dreamweavers’ continued existence relied on their unique healing abilities. People sought their help, despite distrust and intolerance, because Dreamweavers were better healers than Circlian healer priests. Most people who chose to become Dreamweavers did so in order to preserve that healing knowledge.

  In doing so, they forfeited their souls. The gods would not take the souls of the dead who had not worshipped them in life. If Circlians knew as much about healing as Dreamweavers, fewer people would want to become Dreamweavers and fewer souls would be lost.

  The cost was to weaken, perhaps even destroy, a people she admired. Yet, that cost didn’t seem so high now. Saving souls was more important than preserving a heathen cult. And the living would benefit, too. There were more Circlian priests and priestesses than Dreamweavers. They could save more lives.

  For Juran to suggest she encourage Circlians and Dreamweavers to work together was extraordinary. He had, after all, killed Mirar at the gods’ bidding. How far would his acceptance of their skills go?

  “Do you mean to limit the kind of skills these healers learn from Dreamweavers?” she asked. “What of the whole range of mind-healing skills—of mind links and dream links?”

  Juran frowned, obviously not comfortable with the idea. “Begin with the practical, physical information. If these dream-related skills prove themselves useful, we will consider taking them on.”

  She nodded. “I will begin making the arrangements tomorrow.”

  Juran looked at her, his expression thoughtful, then straightened and drew in a deep breath.

  “Are there any other matters to discuss?”

  A long pause followed. The four White shook their heads.

  “Then that is all for today,” Juran finished.

  “So you decided not to call the gods?” Dyara asked.

  Juran shook his head. “If they had discovered that the Pentadrian gods were real, they would have appeared and told us.”

  Mairae shrugged and stood up. The five walls of the Altar began to fold down. She smiled. “If they wanted to talk to us, the walls would stay closed.”

  As the White rose and left the altar, Auraya concentrated on the magic around her. There was no sign of the gods—nothing that she could sense, anyway. All she could sense was a stirring of magic where the walls met the floor of the altar.

  “Auraya,” Dyara said.

  She looked at the older White. “Yes?”

  “Are you planning to learn to ride?”

  “Ride?” Auraya repeated, surprised. She thought of the Bearers—the large white reyner the other White rode. Her few attempts to ride ordinary reyner in the past had been uncomfortable and embarrassing, and she couldn’t imagine riding the Bearers would be any easier. “Well…no. I don’t need to.”

  Dyara nodded. “That’s true. However, we had a Bearer bred for you so I can only assume the gods intended you to ride one, despite your ability to fly.”

  “It’s possible they chose me long after the Bearer was bred,” Auraya said slowly. “Before they knew they’d be choosing someone who didn’t know how to ride. That may be the reason they gave me the ability to fly.”

  Dyara looked thoughtful. “To compensate?”

  “Yes.”

  They heard a laugh from Mairae. “I think they might have over-compensated a little.”

  Juran chuckled and smiled at Auraya. “Just a bit, but for that we are immensely grateful.”

  3

  At this time of year, in the dry and windy weather, objects in the distance looked ghostly—if they could be seen at all. As Reivan reached the Parade, the Sanctuary at its end came into full view. Her stomach twisted and she stopped, setting down her heavy bag with a sigh of relief.

  The great complex of buildings covered the face of a hill at the edge of the city of Glymma. First there was a wide staircase leading up to a façade of arches belonging to a huge hall. Rising up behind this building were the faces of other structures, each a little more hazed by the dusty air. Whether they were joined together or separa
te buildings was hard to tell. From the front the Sanctuary was a convoluted mix of walls, windows, balconies and towers.

  At the farthest point a flame burned, dimmed by the dusty air. This was the Sanctuary flame, lit by the mortal the gods had first spoken to a hundred years before. It had burned day and night since that day, maintained by the most loyal of Servants.

  How can I presume to think I deserve a place among them? she asked herself.

  Because Imenja does, she answered. The night after the army had emerged from the mines, Imenja had called Reivan to her during a meeting of the Voices and their counsellors to discuss the journey ahead. Reivan had waited for Imenja to give her an order, or ask a question, but neither came. It was only after the meeting, while lying sleep-less and puzzled under the night sky, that she had realized Imenja had simply wanted her there to observe.

  Throughout the rest of the journey Imenja had made sure Reivan was always close by. Sometimes she sought Reivan’s opinion, other times she appeared to want only conversation. During the latter moments it was easy for Reivan to forget she was speaking to one of the gods’ Voices. When Imenja put aside her demeanor of stern, powerful leader, she revealed a dry sense of humor and a compassion for other people that Reivan found appealing.

  I like her, Reivan thought. She respects me. I’ve been putting up with the Thinkers’ derision for years. They’ve given me the most boring and menial of the jobs that came our way, afraid that a mere woman would prove to be their equal. They probably think keeping me poor will force me to marry someone, have children and stop being a nuisance to them. I’m sure Grauer sent me off to map the mines just to get me out of his sight.

  Now the former leader of the Thinkers was dead. Hitte, his replacement, hadn’t spoken a word to her since she had led the army out of the mines. She wasn’t sure if he was peeved at her for upstaging him by finding a way out or because he’d found out about Imenja’s promise to make her a Servant of the Gods.

  Probably both, she thought wryly. He can stew all he likes. So can the rest of them. If they’d treated me better, as if I was worth listening to, I would have told them of the wind tunnel, not Imenja. We would have led the army out as a team, and they’d all have had credit for saving the day. She smiled. Imenja would have seen the truth anyway. She knows I saved the army. She knows I’m worthy of serving the gods.

  Shifting her bag to her other hand, Reivan started toward the Sanctuary. Climbing the steps, she stopped to catch her breath beside one of the arches. The Parade was unusually quiet for this time of the day.

  She guessed that Glymma’s citizens were at home, grieving for those who hadn’t returned. Memories of the army’s arrival in the city the previous day replayed in her mind. A crowd had gathered, but only a few subdued cheers had greeted them.

  The army had been far smaller than the one that had set off to war months before. While the battle had claimed most, many slaves, soldiers and Servants had died of thirst and exhaustion during the return across the Sennon desert. Merchant caravans that had traded food and water before had been conspicuously absent. The guides that the Sennon ambassador had sent for the first crossing did not return, and only the Thinkers’ maps, thankfully not among those lost with Grauer, had led them to water.

  She had wondered if the people greeting the army would grow angry at the Voices for leading their loved ones to war, and at the gods for allowing them to be defeated. Any anger they felt must have been tempered by the sight of the casket the four Voices had carried between them, supported by magic. They, too, had suffered a loss.

  Looking around, Reivan pictured how the homecoming must have looked from here. The army had been arranged into formation: the highest rank—the Dedicated Servants of the Gods—in front, ordinary Servants behind, then soldiers lined up in units. Slaves were moved to one side and the Thinkers had stood at the base of the stairs. The Voices had addressed the crowd from a place close to where she was standing now.

  She remembered Imenja’s speech.

  “Thank you, people of Glymma, for your warm welcome. We have travelled far, and fought a great battle in the service of the gods. Our losses are also yours, as are our victories. For though we did not win this battle, we lost by the slightest of margins. So well matched were the armies of the Pentadrians and the Circlians that only chance could decide the winner. This time, the wind of change blew in their favor. Next time it could as easily blow in our direction.”

  She had lifted her arms, clenching her fists. “We know we are as mighty as they. We will soon be mightier!”

  The crowd, knowing its role, had cheered, but the sound was lacking in enthusiasm.

  “We have spread the names of Sheyr, Hrun, Alor, Ranah and Sruul throughout the world! The names of the true gods. The enemies of the Circlians will come here, to us. They will come to Glymma. Where will they come?”

  “Glymma!” the citizens yelled half-heartedly.

  “Those who wish to follow the true gods will come here. Where will they come?”

  “Glymma!” The voices were louder.

  “Where will they come?”

  “Glymma!” Now there was some force behind the reply.

  Imenja had lowered her arms. “We have lost much. We have lost fathers and sons. We have lost husbands and wives. We have lost mothers and daughters, sisters and brothers, friends and companions, mentors and leaders. We have lost our leader, First Voice Kuar.”

  She bowed her head. “His voice is silent. Let us now be silent in acknowledgment of all those who have died for the gods.”

  There had been a lump in Reivan’s throat. Imenja’s face had been lined with grief, and Reivan knew that this grief was real. She had seen it in Imenja’s eyes and heard it in the woman’s voice many times in the last month.

  The silence had stretched out unbearably. Then, finally, Imenja had raised her head and thanked the crowd. She had told them a new First Voice would be elected after a month of mourning. The Voices and Servants had entered the Temple, the soldiers left and the crowd dispersed. Reivan had returned to the small room she rented at the edge of the city. Imenja had given her a day to settle her affairs before coming to the Sanctuary to begin her training as a Servant.

  And so I am here, she thought as she turned to walk through one of the arches.

  The large hall inside was also unusually quiet. Only a few Servants were present, standing in little circles of three or four. Their black-robed backs seemed to forbid interruption. She stopped and waited. Servants were supposed to greet all visitors on arrival, whether they were from the highest or lowest part of society.

  None of the Servants approached her, though in the corner of her eye she noted that one or two were watching her whenever she wasn’t looking in their direction. As time passed, she felt her confidence draining away. Have I come at the wrong time? Imenja said to come here today. Should I approach the Servants? Would that be breaking protocol, or something?

  Finally one of the men stepped away from his companions and strolled toward her.

  “Visitors do not come here during times of mourning,” he told her. “Unless the matter is urgent and important. Is there something you need from us?”

  “Ah.” She managed an apologetic smile. “I did not know. However, I was told to come here this morning by the Second Voice.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “To begin my training as a Servant.”

  His eyebrows rose. “I see.” He pointed across the hall. Another wall of arches ran parallel to the entrance of the hall. “Cross the courtyard and enter the corridor. The Servant-novice quarters are to the right.”

  She nodded and thanked him, then walked out of the hall. The courtyard beyond was large and was dominated by a star-shaped fountain in the center. She walked around it to a wide opening in the building on the other side. This corridor sloped upward, the climb up the hill assisted by an occasional step or two. Servants were walking up and down. Before she had taken more than a few steps a middle-aged woman
stopped her, face tight with suspicion.

  “Where are you going?” she asked sternly.

  “The Servant-novice quarters. I am here to begin my training.”

  The woman’s eyebrows rose. “Name?”

  “Reivan Reedcutter.”

  Somehow the eyebrows managed to rise higher. “I see. Follow me.”

  The Servant led her to a door on the left side of the corridor. Reivan paused, then shrugged and followed the woman in. They strode down a long, narrow passage, passing many doors. Finally the woman stopped at one and knocked.

  The door opened. Inside a Dedicated Servant sat behind a desk. The woman looked up and, as she saw Reivan, frowned. A hand clasped Reivan’s shoulder and pushed her inside.

  “Reivan Reedcutter.” The voice of her guide was heavy with disapproval. “Come to serve the gods.”

  Looking over her shoulder, Reivan glimpsed the Servant’s expression, full of dislike, before the door closed. She turned back to face the Dedicated Servant and caught dismay, quickly smothered.

  “So you came,” the woman said. “Why do you think you can become a Servant when you have no Skills?”

  Reivan blinked at the question. Very direct, she mused. I gather “because Imenja said I could” won’t be convincing this woman.

  “I hope to serve the gods in other ways,” she replied.

  The woman nodded slowly. “Then you must prove that is possible. I am Dedicated Servant Drevva, Mistress of Training.” She rose and moved around the desk. “You will undertake the same training and tests that every other hopeful entrant takes. You will also live in the same accommodations. Come with me.”

  She led Reivan out of the room and farther down the passage. After a few turns the passages became even narrower. Finally she stopped outside a door and opened it.

  Looking inside, Reivan felt her heart sink. The room was barely larger than the bed it contained. It smelled of dust and rot. Sand and dust lay in drifts on the floor.