Last of the Wilds

  They passed one of the many priests and priestesses who stood guard over the grove. The man appeared to be simply relaxing on a stone bench, reading a scroll, but Auraya knew his main task was to prevent anyone but the select few who tended the grove—and the White—from entering.

  The priest made the sign of the circle and Juran nodded in reply. The path took Auraya and Juran through a gap in a wall of close-grown trees, then curved to the left. There it wound through a grove of fruit trees tended by more priests and priestesses before it reached a stone wall.

  A wooden door filled a narrow opening in the wall. As they reached it the door swung inward. Auraya shivered as she stepped through. Though she had visited the grove several times the previous year she still felt a thrill of awe whenever she entered.

  Four trees grew within the circular wall. They were the only four survivors of the hundreds of saplings planted here a hundred years before. Two had sprung up close to one another, and where their branches met they had twined together sinuously. Another was small and stunted. The third appeared to be crouching close to the ground, its branches spread wide.

  The leaves and bark of these trees were so dark they were almost black. On close inspection the white wood beneath could be seen between cracks in the bark. The dark color was highlighted by the white pebbles that covered the ground, apparently to help retain moisture in the soil. The trees were better suited to a colder climate than Hania’s.

  The color of the trees was strange enough, but the growth of their branches was even stranger. They had grown in weird and unnatural ways. Most of the smaller branches had small disc-like swellings along their length, and several of these had developed holes within the swellings. Other branches higher up had formed many thin twigs that had woven themselves together to form a cup, or larger swellings containing small holes. As Auraya watched, a small bird landed in one of the cups. A fledgling head appeared and the parent began to feed it.

  “Did you see that?” a priest said.

  Auraya turned to see a high priest speaking to a young priestess. The woman, a trainee carer, nodded.

  “It has grown into the shape of a nest,” she said.

  “Yes. If you climbed up there and put your hand inside you would find that the wood was warm. The bird has trained the wood not just to grow into a nest, but imprinted it with the Gift to convert magic into heat.”

  “Why does the tree do it?”

  The old man shrugged. “Nobody knows. Maybe the gods made it that way.”

  “I can see now why it’s called the welcome tree,” the woman said. “I thought it a strange name for such an ugly tree.”

  Auraya smiled. It was an ugly tree, but only because of the use humans had put its magically malleable wood to. When Juran had first brought Auraya here she had been amazed to learn that these trees were the source of the priest rings. The swellings on the branches would eventually be harvested, each ring containing the Gift that allowed priests to communicate with each other.

  The welcome trees contained great potential, both for good and evil, but when Juran had told her of their limitations she had wondered how the Circlians found a use for them at all. The trees were hard to keep alive. Groves of them were maintained in most Circlian Temples, though only the well-guarded one in Jarime was used for growing the rings of priests and priestesses. Those that tended the trees guarded the secrets to keeping them alive and healthy.

  The branches must be “trained” every day. When she had helped create her first link ring, she had needed to visit the grove early each morning and sit with the tree growing her ring for at least an hour. Despite all the effort required to make a ring, the wood lost its qualities within a few years. Priest rings were constantly being grown to replace those that were no longer effective. They were also only ever imbued with the one simple Gift of communication. More powerful Gifts could be taught, but the more magic those Gifts required, the quicker the wood lost the imprint.

  The only rings that did not have these limitations were the White’s rings. They had grown spontaneously from the smaller tree, which otherwise stubbornly refused to be shaped by any will but the gods.”

  Another elderly priest appeared at Juran’s shoulder.

  “Juran of the White,” he said, making the sign of the circle. “Auraya of the White. Are you here to begin your task?”

  “We are, Priest Sinar,” Juran replied. “Where should we begin?”

  The priest led them to the larger of the lone trees and indicated a twig that had sprouted from one of the main branches. Auraya smiled wryly as she remembered a similar twig she had watched slowly swell and form a ring the year before.

  “This may be suitable,” the old man said.

  “It is, thank you,” Juran replied. He looked at Auraya. “We may need a few minutes free of distraction as we begin.”

  The priest nodded. “I will clear the grove.”

  He hurried away and herded the other priests and priestesses through the door in the stone wall. When the grove was empty Juran turned to regard her, an odd, pained look on his face.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He grimaced. “We must discuss something first.” He paused. “How…Have you forgiven me?”

  She blinked in surprise. “Forgiven? For wh—? Ah.” Her stomach sank as she realized he was referring to Leiard. “That.”

  “Yes. That.” He chuckled. “I would have given you more time than this before bringing the subject up, but Mairae insisted we must talk before you make this ring.” He sighed. “Years ago a priestess harvesting rings here suffered a terrible personal tragedy. Anyone who wore the rings she made began to feel sad, but nobody realized what was happening until a few priests and priestesses had killed themselves and people began to wonder why.”

  “You’re afraid the same will happen,” Auraya said. She could not help smiling. “I’m not bouncing about with happiness, Juran, but I’m not suicidal either.”

  “How are you feeling, then?”

  “I’ve forgiven you.” As she said it she felt a wave of emotion and realized it was true. “It has worked out for the best.”

  “Mairae thinks I handled it badly.” He frowned. “She believes there would have been no harm in…letting you two see each other so long as it was not publicly known.”

  “But you don’t agree.”

  His shoulders rose. “She has…made me reconsider.”

  Auraya’s stomach constricted. So I would still be with Leiard if Mairae and Juran had taken some time to think about it. She tried to imagine what it would have been like to secretly meet with Leiard, with all the White knowing about it. It would have been embarrassing. I would not have discovered how easily Leiard’s eye was caught by another woman the moment he thought he couldn’t be with me.

  She sighed. “No, I’m glad it worked out this way, Juran. It makes a lot of matters less complicated. Like the hospice.”

  He smiled and nodded. They both looked up at the tree in silence for a moment, then Juran let out a sigh.

  “So how shall we approach this shielded link-ring idea of yours?”

  The river was like a ribbon of fire below, reflecting the bright colors of the dusk sky. Veece sighed at the ache in his arms. He could feel his joints creak as he tilted his wings to follow the water. He had to rest. The younger ones would not like it. They would stamp about impatiently and worry about reaching their home by the following night.

  While his old body was not as limber or robust as theirs, he was still their Speaker. They would not complain if he chose to land, though they might tease him. Such was the prerogative of the young. After all, they would be old one day. They might as well get in a little teasing now, before they became the subject of it themselves.

  The river dropped over a small cliff. He felt the faint touch of moisture in the air, thrown up by the waterfall. Ahead he could see another smaller fall. He flew over it, and decided he liked the look of it. If he dove off the dry rock by the edge he could become a
irborne again without the exhausting effort of running and flapping.

  Circling around, he led the others back to the stretch of river above the fall. Landing jarred all his bones, but a moment later the pain was made worthwhile as he let his arms fall to his side and felt the ache in them ease.

  “We’ll stop here for the night,” he declared.

  Reet frowned. “May as well gather some food,” he said, stalking away into the forest. Tyve hurried after, muttering something about firewood. As Veece sat down on a boulder still warm from the sun, his niece, Sizzi, crouched beside him.

  “How do you feel?” she asked.

  “A bit stiff,” he told her, rubbing his arms. “I just need to work it out a little.”

  She nodded. “And what of your heart?”

  He gave her a reproachful look, but she stared back unflinchingly. Sighing, he looked away.

  “I feel better and I feel worse,” he told her. “No longer angry, but still…empty.”

  She nodded. “It was a good thing that the Circlians did. The markers for the graves and the monument will ensure our help and our losses are never forgotten.”

  “It won’t bring him back,” he reminded her, then he grimaced at his words. It was unnecessary to point that out and he sounded like a sullen child.

  “It won’t bring back anyone’s sons,” she murmured. “Or daughters. Or parents. That cannot be undone. Nor should it, if it meant these Pentadrians won and came to slaughter us all.” She shook her head, then stood up. “I heard that the Circlians are sending priests to us. They will teach us healing, and help us defend ourselves with magic.”

  He snorted. “No use to us, so far from the Open.”

  “Not straight away,” she agreed. “If you send one of our tribe to learn from them, he or she will bring back that knowledge.”

  “And you would like to b—”

  “Veece! Speaker Veece!”

  Reet and Tyve dashed out of the forest and hurried to his side.

  “We found footprints,” one of them panted. “Big footprints.”

  “Bootprints,” the other corrected.

  “Must be a landwalker.”

  “And they’re fresh—the prints, that is.”

  “Can’t be far away.”

  “Should we track him?”

  They looked at Veece expectantly, their eyes shining with excitement. Ready to rush into danger, despite their experience of war. Or perhaps because of it. He could see that surviving unscathed when so many had not might give a young man a sense of invulnerability.

  Then he remembered the last time a lone stranger had been encountered in Si and felt his blood turn cold.

  “We should be careful,” he told them. “What if this is the black sorceress, returned with her birds to take revenge on us?”

  The pair went pale.

  “Then we can’t leave without finding out,” Sizzi said quietly. “All tribes will need to be warned.”

  Veece considered her, surprised but impressed. She was right, though it meant they must take a terrible risk for the sake of their people. He nodded slowly.

  “We best leave and return tomorrow.” He looked from Reet and Tyve to Sizzi. “In full light it will be easier to track this landwalker—or landwalkers. Hopefully we will be able to confirm whether magic has been used, or those black birds are present, without having to meet them.”

  “What if one of us is seen?” Tyve asked. “What if it’s her, and she attacks?”

  “We will do our best to avoid being seen,” Veece said firmly.

  “Most landwalkers make so much noise they can be heard a mountain away,” Sizzi added.

  Reet shrugged. “It’s probably just that explorer who brought the alliance proposal from the White last year. They say he’s a bit mad, but he’s no sorcerer.”

  Veece nodded. “But we cannot gamble our lives on the chance that it is. We’ll leave now and find another place to stay tonight—far enough away that a landwalker couldn’t reach us if he or she walked all night.”

  He rose and flexed his arms, then walked toward the edge of the cliff, the others following.

  9

  The domestic led Reivan down a long hall. One side was broken by archways and as Reivan passed the first gap she saw that they led onto a balcony that gave an impressive view over the city and beyond.

  I must be close to the top of the Sanctuary, she thought anxiously.

  The domestic stopped outside the last arch, turned to face her, and gestured outside. Then, without saying a word, he walked away.

  Reivan paused to catch her breath—and gather her courage. She was late. The Second Voice might not want to punish her, but she might be obliged to.

  “Servant-novice Reivan.” The voice was Imenja’s. “Stop worrying and come in.”

  Reivan moved into the archway. Imenja was sitting on a woven reed chair, a glass of flavored water in one hand. She looked at Reivan and smiled.

  “Second Voice of the Gods,” Reivan said. “I…I apologize for my late arrival. I…ah…I got…”

  Imenja’s smile widened. “You got lost? You?” She chuckled. “I can’t believe that you—the one who led us out of the mines—got lost in the Sanctuary.”

  Reivan looked down, but could not help smiling. “I’m afraid so. It’s quite…humiliating…I wonder if I should draw myself a map.”

  Imenja laughed. “Maybe. Take a seat. Pour yourself a drink. We’ll have company soon, and I wanted some time to talk to you first. Are you settling in?”

  Reivan hesitated. “More or less.”

  The past few weeks flashed through Reivan’s mind as she moved to the seat next to Imenja. Being accepted and nominated a Servant-novice hadn’t improved her in the eyes of the other Servants.

  She found glasses and a jug of water on the floor. As she drank, thirsty after her long trek up staircases and along corridors, she remembered Dedicated Servant Nekaun. His words were the only truly welcoming ones she’d heard so far.

  She had taken his advice and learned all she could of the internal politics within the Sanctuary—mostly by listening to other conversations. It was not difficult when everyone was discussing which of the Dedicated Servants might become First Voice.

  “What do you think of Nekaun?” Imenja asked.

  Reivan paused in surprise, then remembered Imenja’s mind-reading Skill. During the journey home she had gradually grown used to having her thoughts read so easily. In the time since then she must have grown unaccustomed to it again.

  “Dedicated Servant Nekaun seems nice,” she replied. And nice for the eyes, too, she added.

  Imenja’s mouth quirked into a crooked smile. “Yes. Ambitious, too.”

  “He wants to be First Voice?” Reivan felt a spark of curiosity.

  “They all do, for one reason or another. Even those who can’t admit it to themselves. Even those who are afraid of it.” Imenja took a sip of water, then nodded.

  “Afraid of becoming the First Voice?”

  “Yes. They fear responsibility without end. Or perhaps responsibility that leads to an unpleasant end—since that is what it brought Kuar. It is interesting watching their inner turmoil. Their desire to be nearer the gods fights with their fear of death, which would only bring them nearer the gods. Ironic, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then there are those that are afraid the gods will disapprove of them if they are motivated by ambition. They know to be a Servant of the gods one must put aside one’s self interest and work for their benefit, so they tell themselves they do not want the position when they actually do.”

  “I thought it didn’t matter what the gods think. The Servants choose the First Voice from the Dedicated Servants who pass the tests of magical strength.”

  Imenja’s eyebrows rose. “Of course it matters. Imagine being chosen by the Servants, but rejected by the gods?”

  Reivan grimaced. “Not a position I’d like to be in.”

  “What position would you like to be
in?” Imenja asked.

  The question surprised Reivan. She spread her hands. “I just always wanted to be a Servant of the Gods.”

  “Why?”

  Reivan opened her mouth to reply, but closed it again. She had been about to say “to serve the gods,” but she was not sure if that was true. I’m no fanatic, she thought. I’m not sure I’d sacrifice my life without some explanation of why they wanted me to.

  Then why did I harbor this dream for so long?

  She had always admired Servants. Their dignity, their wisdom. Their magic.

  Surely this isn’t just about magic. Becoming a Servant won’t give me stronger Skills. Ever.

  It must be more than that. Having to leave the monastery she had grown up in because she could not become a Servant had seemed so unfair. She had wanted to stay. She had been so sure she belonged there.

  “It is the way of life,” she said slowly. “We are guides and teachers. We are order in a chaotic world. Through ceremonies we mark the steps of people’s lives and so give them a sense of value and place.”

  Imenja smiled, but there was no humor in it. “You speak like a village Servant. We also rule and extract taxes. We mete out justice. We lead men and women to war.”

  Reivan shrugged. “We do a better job at it than the old kings did, from what I’ve read.”

  The Voice laughed. “Yes. We do. If you have plans to become a village Servant, or work in a monastery, put them aside for your later years. I have other uses for you here, for now.”

  Reivan felt a pang of trepidation. “Then I hope I prove as useful as you expect.”

  “You will eventually, I’m sure. I want to make you my Companion.”

  After a moment, Reivan realized she was staring at Imenja and averted her eyes. Me? A Voice’s Companion?

  It meant she would have to advise and undertake errands for Imenja. Anyone who wanted to speak to the Second Voice would have to arrange it through Reivan. She would be replacing Thar, who had died in the war. Thar had been powerfully Skilled…

  “I don’t have Skills,” she pointed out. “I’m only twenty-two.”