Last of the Wilds

  “I know this illness.” he told the young Siyee. “I can help your tribe overcome it, but I cannot promise that all will survive.”

  Tyve went pale. Mirar laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll do all I can. Now give me a little time to pack my bag, and you can guide me to your village.”

  The Siyee sat down on a rock to wait, his expression anguished. Walking up the river, Mirar considered his store of cures. When he had left the battlefield with Emerahl he had been carrying his Dreamweaver bag, but it had been near empty. It was full now. First Emerahl then he had spent many hours in the forest finding and preparing cures, drawing on their knowledge of the plants there. Not all of the cures were as potent or acted in quite the same way as those they replaced. Some were more effective, some less so.

  Moving behind the fall, he walked down the passage into the cave. He looked at the objects piled or stacked around the walls. Rope would be essential but bedding would be too cumbersome to carry. He would sleep in his clothes on the ground, which meant he would need some warmer clothes now the weather was turning cold.

  Food, too, Leiard reminded him

  Of course. He smiled crookedly and moved around the room, gathering what he would need. When he had finished he gave the cave one last look.

  Will I return here soon, or will this crisis of the Siyee lead me away indefinitely? He shrugged. I don’t mind either way. If Emerahl is right, being among people will do me good.

  Turning away, he hurried out to rejoin Tyve and begin another arduous journey through the Si mountains.

  The sun was low in the sky by the time Auraya saw the Open in the distance. She had not flown as fast as she’d intended, having discovered that Mischief grew apprehensive if she flew beyond a certain speed. He would shiver and mew in terror, but so long as she kept below this speed he was happy to crouch within the bag strapped between her shoulder blades.

  Because of the delay, she had not stopped to talk to any of the Siyee she had seen once she reached Si. They hadn’t attempted to meet her either; they could probably see she was moving too fast for them to intercept. Now, as she slowed to approach the long stripe of exposed mountain slope that was the main Siyee gathering place, the sky people flew up to join her.

  She felt Mischief shift position on her back.

  “Fly!” he declared. “Fly! Fly!”

  He had no words to tell her of the strange winged people gliding around and behind her, but she could sense his excitement.

  “Siyee,” she told him. “They’re Siyee.”

  He fell silent for a moment.

  “Syee,” he said quietly.

  Some of her impromptu escort she recognized, some she didn’t. She exchanged whistled greetings with them all. Their thoughts were full of relief and gladness. They knew why she was here, however, and worry made their welcome subdued compared to previous ones.

  She descended steadily, heading for the large, level area in the middle section of the Open known as the Flat. Several Siyee stood around the outside of this and she could hear the sound of greeting drums. Two white-clothed men drew her eye. Like most landwalkers they were nearly twice the height of the Siyee and their white priest robes made them doubly conspicuous.

  She turned her attention to a line of men and women standing near the outcrop known as Speakers’ Rock. As she drew closer she made out enough detail to identify each of them. All were Speakers—leaders of a Siyee tribe—but only half of all Speakers were present. That was no surprise. Some would not want to leave their tribe while invaders roamed within Si, and others lived too far from the Open to travel here for every unplanned meeting. Representatives of each tribe lived in the Open, however, and would be waiting among those at the edge of the Flat.

  Speaker Sirri, the Head Speaker of all tribes, stepped forward as Auraya dropped to the ground. She smiled and held out a wooden cup and a small cake. As Auraya took them Sirri spread her arms wide. Sunlight filtered through the membrane of her wings, illuminating a delicate tracery of veins and arteries between the supporting bones.

  “Welcome back to Si, Auraya of the White.”

  Auraya smiled in return. “Thank you, Speaker Sirri, and thank you to the people of Si for their warm welcome.”

  She ate the sweet cake then sipped some water before handing the cup back. Sirri’s gaze flickered to Auraya’s shoulder and her eyes opened wide.

  “Syee,” Mischief whispered at her ear.

  Smothering a laugh, Auraya gave his head a scratch.

  “Speaker Sirri,” she said, “this is Mischief. He’s a veez. The Somreyans tamed them long ago, and keep them as pets.”

  “A veez,” Sirri said, coming forward to stare at Mischief. “Yes, I remember catching sight of this animal in the war camp.”

  “They can speak, in a limited fashion.” Auraya looked at Mischief. “This is Sirri,” she told him.

  “Seeree,” he replied. “Syee Seeree.”

  Sirri chuckled quietly. “He is an appealing animal. I had better make sure none of the Siyee decide he will make a nice meal.” She straightened. “The Speakers have requested that I call a gathering in the Speakers’ Bower as soon as you arrived, but we could delay if you are tired.”

  Auraya shook her head. “The Pentadrians travel deeper into Si every moment that passes, and I’m as anxious to deal with them as I am sure you all are. I will meet with the Speakers now.”

  Sirri nodded in gratitude, then gestured to the other Speakers. As they moved forward to join Sirri, Auraya looked toward the two priests. They made the sign of the circle. She inclined her head in reply.

  Seeking their minds, she saw that they were eager to talk to her, though neither had any matter they urgently needed to discuss. Though they had found the Siyee welcoming, they also felt their ways were a little strange.

  They need reassurance from me that they’re doing well, she realized.

  Turning away, she followed Sirri into the forest, the other Speakers and tribe representatives following. They passed many of the Siyee bowers—frames of wood with a membrane stretched between, built around the bases of the enormous trees growing around the Open—and many curious Siyee. Sirri did not hurry, despite the other Speakers’ impatience. She knew that her people would be reassured by the sight of the gods’ Chosen One.

  Once they entered the unoccupied forest around the Speakers’ Bower, the Head Speaker quickened her pace. They wound through narrow paths to a large bower and filed inside. Carved tree-stump stools had been arranged in a circle. The Speakers took their places. Auraya set her pack down on the floor beside her. Mischief peered out, then decided it all looked uninteresting and curled up to sleep.

  “As we all know,” Sirri began, “a Pentadrian ship was seen off the coast of southern Si fourteen days ago. Several Pentadrians landed and separated into groups, which have been travelling inland. It appears they are using their birds to guide them toward Siyee villages.” She looked at Auraya. “We sent a request for help to the White and Auraya has come back to us. Before we begin discussing how to deal with the Pentadrians, do you have any questions, Auraya?”

  “How often have you received reports on the Pentadrians’ movements?”

  “Every few hours. My son, Sreil, has organized for groups of watchers to follow the Pentadrians and report back regularly.”

  “Have any of these watchers seen one or more of the Pentadrian sorcerer leaders among them?”

  “No.”

  That doesn’t mean they’re not with them. Auraya drummed her fingers together. “Have the Pentadrians harmed anyone?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Have they spoken to anyone?”

  “No—all Siyee have been told to keep away from them.”

  “Have they attempted to make a permanent settlement?”

  The Speakers looked surprised. She read from their minds that none had considered the possibility.

  “The watchers say they have been travelling constantly,” Speaker Dryss replied.

 
Auraya considered all that they had told her. “I have no more questions for now. Does anyone have questions for me?”

  “Yes,” one of the representatives replied. “What will you do?”

  She brought her hands together and interlocked her fingers. “Advise and assist you. I am not here to decide a course of action for you. I will protect you if they attack, and drive them out of Si—if I can—should you decide I must. I will also translate for you if they wish to communicate. It is possible they wish to make peace with you.”

  The Siyee exchanged glances, many scowling.

  “Never!” one of the representatives hissed.

  “Do not dismiss the possibility,” one of the older Speakers told the young man. “The Pentadrians are not a people about to die out. Better we be at peace with them than not.”

  “So long as we are not forced to compromise too much for it.”

  “Of course not.”

  “There is another possibility,” Auraya continued. “One that disturbs me. They may hope to convert Siyee to their cult.”

  “They will be disappointed,” Speaker Sirri said firmly. “There is not one Siyee who does not grieve the loss of a family or tribe member. None would betray us to join the enemy.”

  “I believe that is so,” Auraya replied. “If they come with such intentions, it is best all are alert to the possibility and prepared to resist sweet words of persuasion.”

  “They will not have a chance to utter them,” the young representative declared. “They will go home or we will kill them.”

  “We will send them home, whatever their intentions,” Sirri agreed. “Even if their purpose is peaceful, it is too soon after the war for us to welcome Pentadrians in Si.”

  The other Speakers voiced their agreement.

  “If that is what you mean to do,” Auraya said, “the Pentadrians need to hear it from you, not me. They need to know it is your decision and that you are not merely doing what the White tell you to do.”

  Silence followed her words. She sensed their fear and reluctance.

  “What if they attack us?” a Speaker said in a thin voice.

  “I will protect you. We will retreat and, when you are safe, I will return to drive them away.”

  “Must we all go?” Speaker Dryss said. “I am not so quick with the winds these days and I fear I may hamper you if we need to retreat quickly.”

  “There is no need for you to all go,” Auraya said. “Choose three from among you.”

  Sirri cleared her throat. “I would prefer to ask for volunteers.”

  As she glanced around the room, Auraya noticed many averted gazes. The young representative did not flinch away. Auraya felt her heart sink as he straightened in preparation to speak. He’s a bit headstrong for this.

  “I’ll go,” he offered.

  “Thank you, Rizzi, but this is a task for Speakers,” Sirri said. “How seriously will these Pentadrians take our words if they aren’t spoken to by tribal leaders?” She spread her hands. “I will go. If no others volunteer, I will be forced to call for nominations, or have names drawn from—”

  “I will go—if I am not too old.”

  The volunteer was a middle-aged Speaker, Iriz of the Green Lake tribe.

  Sirri smiled. “There are many years in you yet, Speaker Iriz.”

  “And I,” another Siyee woman offered. Auraya recognized the Speaker of the Sun Ridge tribe, whose members had been attacked by the Pentadrians’ trained birds months before the battle.

  “Thank you, Speaker Tyzi,” Sirri said. “That makes three.”

  The relief of the other Siyee washed over Auraya. She resisted a smile. Sirri slapped her knees decisively. “We will leave at first light tomorrow. Are there any other matters to raise with Auraya?” She looked around the room, but none of the Siyee spoke. “Then this gathering is over. Speakers Iriz and Tyzi, could you stay? We must discuss preparations for the journey.”

  As the Siyee filed out of the room, Auraya looked down at Mischief. He was still asleep. She smiled and turned her attention to the remaining Siyee. At once she felt a twinge of apprehension. If she found herself facing one of the more powerful Pentadrian sorcerers it would not be easy to protect these Siyee. She must ensure she had a good look at the intruders before they saw her.

  For now, she must show the Siyee no sign of her own doubts and fears.

  22

  The sea surged under the boat as if it regarded the vessel as an irritating pest that it must shake off. As a wave threatened to capsize it, Emerahl drew magic and used it to press the hull back against the water. A gust of wind drove rain into her face and she cursed.

  She realized she was cursing the sea in a language long forgotten, from a time when fishermen and sailors worshipped gods of the seas. It was easy to imagine the thrashing expanse of water was still ruled by a greater mind—one who wanted to be rid of this trespasser—especially when she considered how quickly the storm had blown in.

  Emerahl snorted. The old gods are dead. This is just bad weather. I should have taken the boat seller’s advice, bought a bigger boat and waited a few weeks for the season to change.

  She had once known this stretch of coast well and had been able to read the signs of bad weather. Much could change in a thousand years, however. The currents as well as the weather were different. Even the shape of the shoreline was unrecognizable in places. As she had travelled along the Toren coast she had experienced an odd succession of familiar and unfamiliar sights. Fortunately the hills that marked the border between Toren and Genria were still where they ought to be. From there she had turned her back to the coast and sailed straight out to sea, as Gherid had instructed.

  A wave broke over the boat, soaking her. She scooped the water out of the hull with magic. The rain was so thick now she could barely see the other end of the vessel. There was nothing for her to do but endure. She could not raise the sail in these conditions. She could not see where she was, let alone find her destination, or return to the mainland.

  She cursed again as another wave nearly toppled the boat. The wind sounded like an inhuman voice. She could not help feeling a twinge of superstitious fear. Perhaps she should not be cursing the god of the sea.

  Why not? He can’t harm me, she thought. He’s dead. Like all the old gods. Well, all but the Circle. Could it be that one of the remaining five had learned to influence the sea? Was one playing with it right now?

  The thought was not comforting. If the gods were causing this, what purpose did they have? Were they aware of her? Were they trying to stop her reaching her destination? She clung to the rudder. Though rain and cloud lay thick between herself and the sun, a thin gray light struggled through to her. Suddenly the light failed and she moved into shadow. She looked around, holding back a growing dread. When she saw the source of the shadow her heart froze. Something tall and dark loomed over her.

  Fear melted away as she realized what it was.

  The Stack!

  Through sheer luck, the boat had been driven by the storm to the very place she wanted to be. Now, however, the current was drawing her away from it. Casting about, she considered the oars clipped to the sides of the boat.

  No. They’ll be of no use. I was lucky the sea didn’t throw the boat against the Stack. Even if I manage to row closer, I can’t tie up the boat. It’ll be dashed to pieces. This calls for magic, and a lot of concentration.

  Drawing in a good deal of magic, she sent it out around the boat. She would have to act quickly once she had hold of the vessel or the next wave would wash right over her.

  Lift.

  Her stomach sank as the boat soared upward, carrying her with it. She stared ahead, where she knew the Stack stood, now hidden by the rain.

  Forward.

  It was not a smooth ride. Moving the boat demanded the unwavering focus of her mind. Every gust of wind or shift in her thoughts caused the boat to tilt or sink. Even her relief at seeing the Stack emerge from the rain caused the boat’s movement to wa
ver.

  Closer.

  She stopped when she could see the rocky surface before her.

  Higher.

  The sound of the churning waves crashing against the rocks diminished as she lifted the boat up. Tufts of hardy sea grass appeared, growing in cracks and nooks, then a blanket of it became visible. She had reached the top of the Stack.

  Forward.

  She moved the boat over the sea grass, then, several paces from the cliff edge, lowered it to the ground.

  There was no time to feel relief. The wind threatened to toss the boat back off. Jumping out, she removed her belongings, turned it over, rammed pegs into the ground and lashed the vessel to them.

  When she was sure it was secure, she straightened and looked around. It was possible she had just landed on a promontory of the coast and not the Stack the boy had described. Leaving the boat, she walked carefully to the edge. The sea below was hidden by the dense rain.

  She marked her position by pulling up three handfuls of grass to reveal the pale sandy soil beneath, then she paced around the edge. After fifty paces, she found the uprooted grass. To be sure she hadn’t encountered a natural repetition of her marker, she walked away from the edge. The boat appeared, and she nodded to herself.

  I’ll know this is the Stack the boy described if I find the cave.

  She walked around the cliff edge again, looking for the beginning of the staircase that led down to the cave, but found no sign of it. After the fifth circuit of the island, she gave up and returned to the boat.

  Sitting down, she drew enough magic to form a shield against the rain. Her clothes were soaked and heavy. She channelled a little more magic to warm and dry herself. As the water misted out of her clothes and hair she shivered.

  This had better not be one of those three-day storms, she thought. If it goes for more than a few more hours, I will try to find that staircase again.

  And if she didn’t find it? She would have to stay and wait the storm out. Even if she used magic to keep the boat afloat and propel it through the water, she still had no way of knowing which direction to go to return to the coast.