Last of the Wilds

He shrugged. “Once or twice in passing, but not on this subject. Would you like me to ask her about it?”

  “Yes, but not before tomorrow’s meeting at the Altar. We’re sure to discuss Sennon, and the other White may know the truth already.” She looked at the trader’s letter. “I will be suggesting we send priests and priestesses to Si.”

  Danjin did not look surprised. “As an extra defense?”

  “Yes. The Siyee suffered such terrible losses during the war. Even with their new hunting harnesses they will never be able to repel an invader. We should at least ensure that they can contact us quickly if they need our assistance.”

  Thinking of the Siyee filled her with a different sort of longing and pain. The months she had spent in Si had been all too short. She wished she had a reason to return. Next to their honest, uncomplicated way of life her own people’s demands and concerns seemed ridiculous or unnecessarily mean and selfish.

  Her place was here, however. The gods may have given her the Gift of flight so that she might travel over the mountains and persuade the Siyee to become allies of the White, but that did not mean she should favor one people over others.

  Yet I must not abandon the Siyee either. I led them to war and death. I must ensure they don’t suffer any more losses because of their alliance to us.

  “Most of their land is near impassable to landwalkers,” Danjin pointed out. “That will slow down invaders and give them time to summon help.”

  She smiled at his use of the Siyee term for ordinary humans. “Don’t forget the sorceress who entered Si last year and those savage birds she keeps. Even a few minor sorcerers could do a lot of harm if they slip into the country unnoticed.”

  “Even so, if the Pentadrians wanted to strike at us again, I doubt they’d bother with Si.”

  “Si is the closest of our allies to the southern continent. It has no priests or priestesses and the few Siyee who are Gifted have had little training. They are our weakest ally.”

  Danjin looked thoughtful, then nodded. “It’s not like Jarime can’t spare a few priests and priestesses. Whatever intrepid young fellows you send to Si ought to be good healers too. You want the Siyee to continue feeling grateful to you. In twenty years only the older Siyee will remember that you forced King Berro to remove the Toren settlers from their land. The younger Siyee will not understand the value of that act—or they’ll convince themselves that they could have done it without you. They may even be convincing themselves of that now.”

  She shook her head. “Not yet.”

  “They might be. People can convince themselves of anything, when they want someone to blame.”

  She winced. Someone to blame. A few people had been driven by grief to blame the White, even the gods, for the death of their loved ones during the war. Being able to sense the grief of these and more rational people was another disadvantage of her ability to read minds. Sometimes it seemed every man, woman or child in the city was grieving over a lost relative or friend.

  Then there were the survivors. She was not the only one tormented by unwelcome memories of the war. Every man and woman who had fought had seen terrible things, and not all of them could forget. Auraya shuddered as she thought of the nightmares she’d endured since the battle. In these dreams she walked a battlefield without end and the mutilated corpses of men and women pleaded to her for help, or shouted accusations.

  We must do everything we can to avoid another war, she thought. Or find a better way to defend ourselves. We White have great magical strength. Surely we can find a way to fight that doesn’t cause so many deaths.

  Even if they did find one, it might be of no use if the enemy’s gods were real. She thought back to a morning a few days before the battle, on which she had witnessed the Pentadrian army emerging from the mines. Their leader had called up a glowing figure. She would have dismissed it as an illusion, except that her senses had told her this figure was overflowing with magical power.

  Circlians had always believed the Pentadrians followed false gods. That the Circle of Five were the only true gods who had survived the War of the Gods. If she had seen a real god, then how could this be?

  The White had questioned the gods after the battle. Chaia had told them it was possible that new gods had risen since the War. He and his fellow gods were investigating.

  She had discussed and debated the possibilities with her fellow White many times since then. Rian was reluctant to accept that new gods had come into existence. Normally fervent and confident, he was upset, even angered, by the prospect of new gods. She was beginning to understand that he needed the gods to be an unchangeable force in the world. A force he could rely on to always be the same.

  Mairae, in contrast, was unconcerned. The idea that there were new gods in the world did not bother her. “We serve our five, that’s all that matters,” she had said once.

  Juran and Dyara were not convinced that the “god” Auraya had seen was real. Yet they were more concerned than Mairae. As Juran had pointed out, real gods were a great threat to Northern Ithania. He had assumed that the Pentadrians had claimed that their false gods had ordered them to war in order to gain the obedience of their people. Now it was possible that these gods were real and had encouraged—perhaps even ordered—the Pentadrians to invade Circlian lands.

  They had all agreed that if one Pentadrian god existed, then the rest probably did too. No god would allow his followers to serve false gods in tandem with himself.

  Auraya frowned. I’m convinced what I saw was a real god, so I must believe there are five new gods in this world. But surely that’s…

  “Auraya?”

  She jumped and looked up at Danjin. “Yes?”

  “Did you hear anything I just said?”

  She grimaced apologetically. “No. Sorry.”

  He smiled and shook his head. “You don’t have to apologize to me. Anything that can distract you so thoroughly must be important.”

  “Yes, but it is nothing that hasn’t distracted me a thousand times before. What were you saying?”

  Danjin smiled and patiently began repeating what he had been telling her.

  Emerahl sat very still.

  From all around her came the sounds of the forest at night: rustling leaves, the chatter and whistling of birds, the creak of branches…and from somewhere not too far away, the faint sound of pattering feet.

  She tensed as the sound came closer. A shadow moved in the starlight.

  What is it? Something edible, I hope. Come closer, little creature…

  It was downwind of her, but that should not matter. She had a magical barrier around her, keeping her odors to herself.

  And there are plenty of those, she thought ruefully. After a month of travelling, with no change of clothes, anyone would smell bad. How Rozea would laugh to see me now. Her whorehouse favorite covered in muck, sleeping on the hard ground, her only companion a mad Dreamweaver.

  She thought of Mirar, sitting by the fire several hundred paces behind her. He was probably muttering to himself, arguing with the other identity in his head.

  Then the creature moved into sight and all thought of Mirar fled her mind.

  A breem! she thought. A tasty, fat little breem!

  A shot of stunning magic killed it instantly. She rose, picked up the little creature and began preparing it for cooking. Skinning, gutting and finding a good roasting stick took up all her attention. When it was ready, she started back to the campfire, stomach rumbling in anticipation.

  Mirar was just as she had pictured him. He stared at the fire, lips moving, unaware of her approach. She chose her steps carefully, hoping to hear a little of what he was saying before he noticed her and fell silent.

  “…really matter if she forgives you or not. You cannot see her again.”

  “It matters. It might matter to our people.”

  “Perhaps. But what will you say? That you weren’t yourself that night?”

  “It is the truth.”

  “She won’t
believe you. She knew I existed within you, but never saw enough to understand what that meant. I stayed quiet while you two were together. Do you think I was doing it out of good manners?”

  He fell silent.

  “She,” eh? Emerahl thought. Who is “she”? Someone he has wronged, if this talk of forgiveness is a clue. Was this woman the source of all his troubles, or just some of them? She smiled. Typical Mirar.

  She waited, but he did not speak again. Her stomach growled. He looked up and she started forward as if just arriving.

  “A successful hunt,” she told him, holding up the breem.

  “Hardly fair on the wildlife,” he said. “Pitted against a great sorceress.”

  She shrugged. “No less fair than if I had a bow and was a good shot. What have you been doing?”

  “Thinking how nice it would be if there were no gods.” He sighed wistfully. “What’s the point of being a powerful immortal sorcerer when you can’t do anything useful for fear of attracting their attention?”

  She set about propping the breem over the fire. “What useful acts do you want to do that would attract their attention?”

  He shrugged. “Just…whatever was useful at the time.”

  “Useful to whom?”

  “Other people,” he said with a touch of indignation. “Like…like unblocking a road after a landslide. Like healing.”

  “Nothing for yourself?”

  He sniffed. “Occasionally. I might need to protect myself.”

  Emerahl smiled. “You might.” Satisfied that the breem was set in place, she sat back on her heels. “There will always be gods, Mirar. We just managed to get on their bad side of late.”

  Mirar laughed bitterly. “I got on their bad side. I provoked them. I tried to stop them deceiving people and taking control by spreading the truth about them. But you and the others…” He shook his head. “You did nothing. Nothing except be powerful. For that they’ve called us ‘Wilds’ and had their minions kill us.”

  She shrugged. “The gods have always kept us in check. You can still heal others without attracting attention.”

  He wasn’t listening. “It’s like being locked up in a box. I want to get out and stretch!”

  “If you do, kindly do it somewhere away from me. I still like being alive.” She looked up. “Are you sure the Siyee won’t see our fire?”

  “They won’t,” he told her. “It’s not safe flying in these close parts of the mountains on moonless nights. Their eyesight is good, but not that good.”

  She readjusted the speared breem on its supports over the fire. Sitting back, she looked at Mirar. He was leaning back against a tree trunk. The yellow light of the fire enhanced the angle of his jaw and brows and turned his blue eyes a pale shade of green.

  As he turned to meet her gaze, she felt a thrill of mingled pain and joy. She had never thought to see him again, and here he was, alive and…

  …not quite himself. She looked away, thinking of the times she had tried to question him. He could not tell her how it was that he was alive. He had no memory of the event that was supposed to have killed him, though he had heard of it. This made the claims of the other identity—Leiard—more believable. Leiard believed that he carried an approximation of Mirar’s personality in his mind, formed out of the large number of link memories of the dead Dreamweaver leader that he had received during mind links with other Dreamweavers.

  But this is Mirar’s body, she thought. Oh, he’s a lot thinner and his white hair makes him look a lot older, but his eyes are the same.

  Mirar believed his body was his own, but could not explain why this was so. Leiard, on the other hand, thought it merely coincidence that he looked similar to Mirar. When Leiard was in control he moved in a completely different way than Mirar did, and Emerahl wondered how she had managed to recognize him at all. It was only when Mirar regained control that she was sure the body was his.

  So she had asked Leiard about the link memories. If what he said was true, how had this come about? How had he gained so many of Mirar’s link memories? Could it be possible that Leiard, or someone Leiard had linked with, had collected Mirar’s link memories from many, many Dreamweavers?

  Leiard could not remember who he had picked up the memories from. In fact, his memory was proving to be as unreliable as Mirar’s. It was as though they both had half a past each, but neither half filled the gaps in the other.

  She had asked them both about the tower dream she had been having for months, which she suspected was about Mirar’s death. Neither had recognized it, though it appeared to make Mirar uncomfortable.

  It was frustrating. She wasn’t sure what Mirar wanted from her. When she had found him on the battlefield he had been healing the wounded, just like all the other Dreamweavers, but obviously that disguise wasn’t enough or he wouldn’t have asked her to take him away. He hadn’t said where she should take him, however. He had left that choice to her.

  Knowing how good he was at getting into trouble with the gods, she took him toward the safest, most remote place she knew of. Soon she had discovered Leiard. He seemed to have accepted her company only because he had no choice in the matter. She could sense both Leiard’s and Mirar’s emotions. The realization that Mirar’s mind was open and readable had been a shock to her. Belatedly she had remembered that Mirar had never been able to hide his mind as well as she could. It was a skill that required time and the assistance of a mind-reader to learn, and, like all Gifts, it must be practiced or the mind forgot it.

  That meant that the gods would see his thoughts if they happened to look his way, and through him they could see her. Mirar knew who she was.

  Of course, they might not have any reason to pay attention to this half-mad Dreamweaver at all. One fact she knew about the gods was they couldn’t be in more than one place at one time. Distances could be crossed in an instant, but their attention was singular. With so much to keep them occupied, the chance they would notice Mirar was slim.

  If they did, who would they believe this person was? Leiard or Mirar? Mirar had told her something about the gods that she hadn’t known before. They did not see the physical world except through the eyes of mortals. After a hundred years there were no mortals alive who had met Mirar before, so none would recognize him. Even those Dreamweavers with link memories of Mirar from predecessors might not recognize him now. Memory of physical appearance was individual.

  The only people who could recognize him now were immortals: her, other Wilds, and Juran of the White. However, the Mirar they remembered had looked much healthier than this. His hair had been blond and carefully groomed. He’d had smooth skin and more flesh on his bones. When she had commented on how changed he was, he had laughed and described himself as he had appeared two years before. He’d had long white hair and a beard and had been even skinnier than he was now.

  He had said he was more concerned about being recognized as Leiard, though he didn’t say why. It appeared Leiard was as good at getting himself into trouble as Mirar had been.

  Travelling was difficult and slow in the mountains of Si, but not impossible for those as Gifted as they. If they were being pursued their followers must be far behind them now.

  Mirar yawned and closed his eyes. “How much longer?”

  “That would be telling,” she replied. She had refused to tell him where they were going. If he knew, the gods might read his mind and send someone ahead to meet them.

  His lips twitched into a smile. “I meant until the breem is cooked.”

  She chuckled. “Sure you did. You’ve asked how long we have to travel every night.”

  “So I have.” He smiled. “How much longer?”

  “An hour,” she told him, nodding at the breem.

  “Why not cook it with magic?”

  “They’re nicer cooked slow, and I’m too tired to concentrate.” She looked at him critically. He looked weary. “Go to sleep. I’ll wake you when it’s ready.”

  His nod was almost imperceptible.
She rose and went in search of more firewood. Tomorrow they would arrive at their destination. Tomorrow they would finally be hidden from the gods’ sight.

  And then?

  She sighed. Then I’ll have to see if I can sort out what’s going on in that mixed-up mind of his.

  2

  “These are beautiful,” Teiti said, moving to the next stall.

  Imi looked up at the lamps. Each was a giant shell, carved with tiny holes so that the flame inside cast thousands of little pinpricks of light. They were pretty, but not precious enough for her father. Only something rare would do. She wrinkled her nose and looked away.

  Teiti said no more about the lamps. Her aunt had been Imi’s guardian long enough to know that trying to persuade her something was wonderful would only convince her it wasn’t. They strolled to the next stall. It was covered in dishes brimming with powders of all colors, dried coral and seaweed, hunks of precious stones, dried or preserved sea creatures and plants from above and below the water.

  “Look,” Teiti exclaimed. “Amma! It’s rare. Perfumers make wonderful scent out of it.”

  The stall-holder, a fat man with oily skin, bowed to Imi. “Hello, little Princess. Has the amma caught your eye?” he asked, beaming. “It is the dried tears of the giantfish. Very rare. Would you like to smell it?”

  “No.” Imi shook her head. “Father has shown me amma before.”

  “Of course.” He bowed as she turned away. Teiti looked disappointed, but said nothing. As they passed several more stalls, Imi sighed.

  “I can’t see how I’m going to find anything here,” she complained. “The most rare and precious things would have gone straight to my father and he uses all the best makers in the city already.”

  “Anything you give him will be precious,” Teiti told her. “Even if it were a handful of sand, he’d treasure it.”

  Imi frowned impatiently. “I know, but this is his fortieth Firstday. It’s extra special. I have to find him something better than anything he’s been given before. I wish…”

  She let the sentence hang unfinished. I wish he’d agreed to trade with the landwalkers. Then I could find him something he’s never seen before.