The Last of the Wilds

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 the. 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 forest 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.

“Have you spoken to Raeli?” she asked.

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.

That was something she wasn’t supposed to know about. On the day the landwalker sorceress came to the city, Imi had been locked away in her room. She had sent Teiti to find out what was going on - but also so Imi could do something without being seen.

Behind an old carved panel in her room was a narrow tunnel just big enough for her to slither through. It had been blocked originally, but she had cleared it long ago. At the end of this was a secret room, lined with pipes. If she put her ear to a pipe, she could hear what was being said at the other end. Her father had told her about it once, and explained that it was how he knew about people’s secrets.

The day the landwalker had come to the city, Imi had crawled through the tunnel to see if she could find out what had stirred up the guards. She’d heard this woman asking her father if landwalkers and Elai might become friends. Her people would get rid of the raiders that had killed and robbed the Elai for so long, forcing them to live in the underground city. In return the Elai would help her people if they ever needed it. They would also exchange other things. Her people would buy from the Elai, and Elai could buy from her people. It sounded like a good arrangement, but her father had refused. He thought all landwalkers were untrustworthy liars, thieves and murderers.

They can’t all be like that, Imi thought. Can they?

If they were, then the mainland must be a horrible place where everybody stole from each other and people were murdered all the time. Maybe it was, because they had lots of valuable things to fight over.

Imi shook her head. “Let’s go back.”

Her aunt nodded. “Maybe there’ll be something special next time.”

“Maybe,” Imi replied doubtfully.

“You still have over a month to find him a present.”

The market was near the Mouth, the big lake that was the entrance to the underwater city. As they came in sight of the great dark cave filled with water, Imi felt a wistful longing. She had ventured beyond the city only a few times in her life, but always with many guards. That was the trouble with being a princess. You couldn’t go anywhere without an escort.

She had learned long ago to forget about the armed guards that followed her and Teiti about. They were good at being inconspicuous and didn’t get in her way.

Inconspicuous. Imi smiled. It was a new word she had learned recently. She said it under her breath.

They stepped out of the market into Main River. It wasn’t really a river, since it carried no water, but all of the ways in the city were named rivers, streams, creeks or trickles. The larger public caves were called pools - sometimes puddles if someone was mocking the neighborhood.

Main River was the widest thoroughfare in the city. It led straight to the palace. She had never known Main River to be empty, not even late at night. There was always someone on it, even if it was just a courier hurrying to or from the palace, or the night guards patrolling the palace gates.

Today the River was crowded. Two of the guards following her stepped forward to ensure people moved out of her way. The noise created by so many voices, slapping feet, music and singing of entertainers was deafening.

She caught a thread of melody and paused. It was a new song, called “The White Lady,” and she was certain it was about the landwalker visitor. Her father had banned anyone from playing it in the palace. Teiti caught Imi’s arm and pulled her forward.

“Don’t make the guards’ job any harder,” she said in a low voice.

Imi did not argue. Can’t show too much interest in the song anyway, in case they guess I know about the landwalker.

They reached the end of Main River. Teiti let out a sigh of relief as they stepped out of the crowd, through the gates and into the quiet of the Palace Pool. A guard stepped forward and bowed to Imi.

“The king wishes to see you, Princess,” the man said formally. “In the Main Room.”

“Thank you,” Imi replied, managing to suppress her excitement. Her father wanted to talk to her in the middle of the day! He never had time to see her during the day. It must be important.

Teiti smiled approvingly at Imi’s restraint. They walked down the main stream of the palace at a dignified but frustratingly slow pace. Guards nodded politely as she passed them. The stream was full of men and women waiting to see the king. They bowed as Teiti and Imi walked past to the open double doors of the Main Room.

As Imi stepped into the huge room she saw her father leaning on the arm of his throne, talking to one of four men sitting on stools arranged before him. She recognized her father’s counsellor, the palace steward and the head clothes-maker. Her father looked up, smiled broadly and opened his arms.

“Imi! Come give your father a hug.”

She grinned, tossed all decorum aside and ran across the room. As she leapt into his arms, she felt them wrap around her and the vibration of his laugh deep within his chest.

He released her and she settled on his knee.

“I have an important question for you to answer,” he told her.

She nodded, making her expression serious. “Yes, Father?”

“What entertainments would you like to see at our party?”

She grinned. “Dancing! Jugglers and acrobats!”

“Of course,” he said. “What else? Can you think of something particularly special?”

She thought hard. “Flying people!”

His eyebrows rose and he looked at his counsellor. “Do you think a few Siyee would agree to attend?”

She bounced up and down with excitement. “Would they? Would they?”

The counsellor smiled. “I will ask, but I can’t make any promises. They might not like being underground where they can’t see the sky, and they can’t fly in small places. There isn’t enough room.”

“We could put them in our biggest, tallest cave,” Imi suggested. “And paint the roof blue like the sky.”

Her father’s eyes lit with interest. “That would be a sight.” He smiled at her and she searched for more ideas that might please him.

“Fire-eaters!” she exclaimed.

He winced, probably remembering the accident that had happened a few years before, when an overly nervous new fire-eater had spilled burning oil over himself.

“Yes,” he said. “Is that all?”

She considered, then smiled. “A treasure hunt for the children.”

“You’re not getting too old for that?”

“Not yet... Not if we have it outside.”

His expression changed to disapproval. “No, Imi. It’s too dangerous.”

“But we could bring guards and hold it somewhere—”

“No.”

She pouted and looked away. Surely it wasn’t that dangerous outside. From what she had overheard in the pipe room, raiders weren’t circling the islands all the time. People went out every day to collect food or objects to trade. Whenever someone was killed, it was on one of the outer islands, or away from the islands altogether.

“Anything else?” he asked. She could hear the false brightness in his voice. She could tell when his smile was forced because the wrinkles around his eyes didn’t deepen.

“No,” she replied. “Just lots of presents.”

The wrinkles appeared. “Of course,” he replied. “Now, with all these suggestions to take care of, I have a lot of work to do. Go back to Teiti now.”

She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, then slipped off his knee and walked back to Teiti. Her aunt smiled, took her hand, and led her out of the room.

In the stream outside stood a large group of traders. She heard them muttering among themselves as she passed.

“... waiting for three days!”

“It has been in my family for three generations. They can’t...”

“... never seen such large sea bells. Big as fists!”

Sea bells? Imi slowed and pretended to brush something from her clothes.

“The landwalkers have discovered them, though. They guard them well.”

“Could we arrange a distraction? Then we...”

The conversation became too quiet to hear as she moved away. Her heart was beating fast. Sea bells as big as fists? Her father loved sea bells. Could she ask one of these traders to get one for her? She frowned. It sounded like they were planning one big trip to gather lots of bells. When they did, bells the size of fists would be on sale everywhere. They’d be common and boring.

Unless I get someone to sneak in and grab one for me before the traders get there. She smiled. Yes! I just need to find out where these sea bells are.

Which would be easy. Tonight she would make a trip to the pipe room.

:Auraya, are you coming? Juran asked.

Auraya jumped at the voice in her mind. She dropped the scroll she had been reading - a fascinating account of a sailor who had been rescued from drowning by one of the sea people - and leapt out of her seat. Her sudden movement startled her veez. He gave a squawk, ran up the back of the chair he’d been sleeping on and scampered up the wall.

“I’m sorry, Mischief,” she said, moving to the wall and stretching a hand out to him. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

He stared at her accusingly, feet splayed firmly against the wall. “Owaya scare. Owaya bad.”

“I’m sorry. Come down so I can scratch you.”

He remained just out of reach, his whiskers now quivering in the way they did when he was living up to his name.

:Owaya chase Msstf, a tiny voice said in her mind. She shook her head.

“No, Mischief. I—”

:Auraya? Juran called.

:Yes. I’m coming. Where are you?

:At the base of the Tower.

:I’ll be right there.

She sighed and left Mischief clinging to the wall. Setting a goblet on the edge of the scroll to stop it blowing off the table, she moved to the window, unlatched the pane and pushed it open.

An awareness of the world came to her as she concentrated. She somehow knew where she was in relation to the ground below, and the land and sky around her. Drawing magic to herself, she willed herself to change position slightly. A little higher, then outward. In a moment she was floating beside the window, nothing but air below her feet. Shifting her position again, she turned around and shut the window.

Below her lay the grounds of the Temple. Floating as she was, it almost looked as though one of her feet was standing on the round roof of the Dome, and the other on the hexagonal building known as the Five Houses where the priesthood was housed. Aside from the White Tower behind her, the rest of the Temple grounds were carefully tended gardens shaped into a pattern of circles - the circle being the symbol of the gods. Ahead and to her right she could see a thread of reflected sky where one of the many rivers of Jarime made its way toward the sea.

She willed herself to descend. When she moved like this, it did not resemble flying at all. She called it flying only because she could not think of another simple term to sum up what she was doing. “Moving in relation to the world” was a bit long-winded.

In addition to her awareness of the world was a new awareness of the magic in it. During the last moments of the battle, when she had gathered more magic to herself than ever before, she had become aware of magic in a way she had never been before. If she concentrated, she could sense it all around her.

Both Circlians and Dreamweavers agreed that the world was imbued with magic. All living things could draw in some of that magic and channel it out into the physical world. The uses it was put to were called Gifts and had to be learned, just as any physical skill must be learned. Most living things, including people, could draw only a little magic, and so had limited Gifts. Some, however, were stronger and more talented. If human, they were known as sorcerers.

I was an unusually powerful sorceress even before the gods enhanced my powers to make me a White, she reminded herself, looking down at the ring on her finger. I wonder what sort of life I’d have lived in the days before Circlian priests and priestesses.

She liked to think that she would have used her Gifts to help people, that she would not have become corrupt and cruel, like so many powerful sorcerers in the past. Sorcerers like the Wilds, who while powerful enough to achieve immortality had been more inclined to abuse their power and positions of authority.

Perhaps humans were not meant to wield that much power. Perhaps having physical form made them vulnerable. The true gods were not corrupt. They had no physical form, but were beings of pure magic that existed in the magic that imbued everything.

Auraya jolted to a halt.

I can sense that magic. Does that mean I will be able to sense them?

The possibility was both exciting and disturbing. She looked down. The ground was not far away. Descending again, she dropped until she was level with the top of the Tower entrance, then slowed to make a gentle landing.

Looking through the arches, she found the other White standing in the hall. Mairae saw her and smiled. At once the other White followed Mairae’s gaze. Juran’s expression softened as he saw Auraya. He started toward her and the others followed.

“Have you been taking a little early morning jaunt around the Tower?” he asked, indicating she should walk beside him as they started toward the Dome.

“No,” Auraya replied. “I must confess, I forgot the time.”

“You forgot?” Mairae exclaimed. “Your one-year anniversary?”

“Not that,” Auraya said, chuckling. “Just the time. Danjin brought me a fascinating scroll to read on the Elai.” She looked at Juran. “Will I be going back there to make a second offer of alliance?”

Juran smiled. “We’ll discuss it at the Altar.”

The priests and priestesses standing or walking about the Tower and Dome paused to watch them. Auraya had grown used to their stares of curiosity and admiration. She had learned to accept them as part of her role and was no longer embarrassed.

Does that make me vain and spoiled? she wondered. This is no easy task. I work hard, and not for my benefit. I serve the gods, like them, but I happen to be more Gifted and good at what I do. And I am still capable of mistakes. Leiard’s face flashed into her mind and the usual pang of hurt followed. She pushed both away firmly.

They walked under one of the wide arches of the Dome, out of the gentle morning sunlight. The darkness inside took form as Auraya’s eyes adjusted. In the center of the huge structure, upon a dais, stood the Altar.

The five triangular walls of tile structure were folding down to the floor like an opening flower. Juran stepped onto one and strode up to the center, where a table and five chairs waited. The others followed. As they took their seats, the walls slowly hinged upward to meet above them, sealing them in what was now a five-sided room.

Auraya looked at each of her fellow White. Juran was taking a deep bream, preparing to speak the ritual words. Dyara sat calmly. Rian was frowning; he hadn’t looked happy since the war. Mairae’s arms were crossed and her fingers on one hand drummed silently against her arm.

“Chaia, Huan, Lore, Yranna, Saru,” Juran began. “Once again, we thank you for the peace you brought to Ithania and the Gifts that have allowed us to keep it. We thank you for your wisdom and guidance.”

“We thank you,” Auraya murmured along with the others. She concentrated on the magic around them. If the gods were close she was not sensing them.

“Today it is a year since Auraya’s Choosing, and a year more that the rest of us have served you. We will review the events of that year and consider how we shall proceed from here. If our plans divert from yours, please let your wishes be known to us.”

“Guide us,” the others murmured.

Juran looked around the table.

“Many small, peaceful alliances and one big war,” he said. “That is one way to sum up the year.” Auraya could not help a wry smile. “First let us deal with matters close to home.” He turned to Dyara. “How are matters in Genria and Toren?”

She shrugged. “Very good, actually. King Berro has been remarkably well-behaved recently. King Guire is as sensible as ever. They’re being gracious, acknowledging each other’s part in the war and exchanging praise for the skills of their fighters.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m waiting for all this male strutting about to turn into bickering again.”

Juran chuckled and turned to Auraya. “How are the Siyee?”

She grimaced. “I have not heard from them since they left the battlefield.” She paused. “It would be much easier to communicate with them if we had priests there. I did promise them that we would send some, as healers and teachers.”

Juran frowned. “It is a difficult journey.”

“Yes,” Auraya agreed. “I’m sure we will find some young priests willing to make the effort for the chance to live in a place few landwalkers see. We could hire that explorer who delivered our first proposal of alliance as a guide.”

“Yes. Arrange it, Auraya. And ask if any of the Si are interested in coming here to join the priesthood.” He turned to Rian. “What of the Dunwayans?”

“A happy lot at the moment,” he said. “Nothing pleases a warrior culture more than the chance to participate in such a grand battle. They’re almost disappointed it’s over.”

Juran smiled crookedly. “What of the traps in the pass?”

“They’re still in the process of removing them.”

“How much longer will it take?”

“A few more weeks.”

Mairae smiled as Juran turned to her.

“No complaints from the Somreyans. They left a week ago, as you know, and should reach Arbeem today or tomorrow.”

Juran nodded. “Then that leaves the Sennons.” To Auraya’s surprise, he looked at Dyara. The woman was taking care of matters relating to two countries already, Toren and Genria. Surely she would not be taking on a third - especially when that country had sided with the Pentadrians and was likely to be difficult and time-consuming to work with.

“The emperor himself has sent messages proposing a ’new era of friendship,‘ ” Dyara said, her disapproving expression telling them what she thought of this. “Rumor says he has torn up the alliance he signed with the Pentadrians.”

“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 separate 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 sleepless 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.

“Do you allow your Servant-novices to live in such conditions?” she found herself asking. “The Servants that raised me would have had me whipped for such neglect.”

“If it does not suit you, find a domestic to clean it,” Drevva said. She turned on her heel and walked away, then paused and looked back. “Come to my room at the morning bell tomorrow and I will arrange for a Servant to begin your tests.” Her eyes dropped to Reivan’s bag. “What is that?”

“My belongings.”

“Which are?”

Reivan shrugged. “Clothes, instruments, books...” She thought of the books she had sold the previous day and felt a pang of loss. She had doubted the Sanctuary would appreciate her bringing a small library with her.

Drevva strode back and took the bag from Reivan. “Servants do not keep personal belongings. You will have all you need here at the Sanctuary. Clothing will be provided, and if you succeed in becoming a Servant-novice you will need no more than the robes.”

“But—”

The woman silenced her with a stare. “But what?”

“But what if I fail the tests?” Reivan asked.

A tiny smile pulled at the woman’s lips. “I will keep your bag in my room. It will be returned to you when you leave.”

When you leave. Reivan watched the woman stride away, then sighed and went in search of a domestic. Her search took her a long way from her room, and she only realized she had reached the Servants’ rooms when she finally found a domestic sweeping a corridor.

“I need someone to clean my room,” she told him.

He gave her a sullen look. “All the domestics are busy cleaning out rooms of dead Servants,” he told her, then turned his back.

She would have cleaned out the room herself but it was clear from Drevva’s response that Servants considered such tasks beneath them. If the unskilled newcomer behaved like a domestic she would be treated like one, Reivan guessed.

The domestics continued to claim their other tasks were more urgent. Eventually she followed a child domestic to a washroom where she bullied him into cleaning out her room and replacing the bedding. She felt a bit guilty about it, but knew from her extensive reading of philosophers and famous healers that to sleep in a grimy room was to encourage sickness in the body and mind.

This took the rest of the day. By the time the child had finished it was late and she was hungry. She went in search of food. Catching the aroma of cooking, Reivan followed it to a large hall full of Servants. Only a low murmur of voices could be heard and she decided that there must be a general rule against noise. Her footsteps drew several frowns as she entered. She looked around and was relieved to see one of the tables was occupied by young women and men in plain clothes. They must be other entrants. She took an empty place. The entrants regarded her curiously but said nothing.

A domestic thumped a bowl of a thin soup in front of her. She noted, with disappointment, that only a few crumbs of bread remained in the basket in the center of the table. When she had finished eating she met the eyes of the young man beside her.

“Is there a rule against talking?”

He nodded. “Only while we’re in mourning.”

At one end of the room several Dedicated Servants sat at a long table. She examined each of them as best she could. In a month’s time, Servants from all over the world would choose one of the Dedicated Servants to be the new leader of the Pentadrians. Drevva was at the table. The woman glanced at Reivan, then looked away.

This is hardly the reception I was hoping for, Reivan thought. These Servants are so cold they make even the Thinkers seem patient, kind and friendly.

There were several empty places at the table. Reivan felt a chill as she realized why. The Dedicated Servants who had claimed those seats were probably dead, killed in the war.

Perhaps this is why everyone at the Sanctuary is so unwelcoming, she mused. Defeat and loss has made them grumpy and distracted. She could hardly expect them to be warm and cheerful toward her when they were grieving lost friends and colleagues.

A bell rang to mark the end of the meal, and Reivan followed the entrants back to their quarters.

Taking a firm grip of an outcrop of stone with his left hand, Mirar turned his attention to his legs again. Bending his left knee, he searched for a good place to wedge the toe of his right boot. He found a firm ledge and carefully shifted his weight onto it.

The constant pull of the rope around his chest eased as Emerahl played it out.

“Nearly there,” she called, her voice unexpectedly close.

He paused and looked down. His feet were almost level with her head. She smiled.

She’s so beautiful, he found himself thinking. The thought was Leiard’s, however. So was the small pang of guilt that he might find a woman other than Auraya attractive.

She is beautiful, he told Leiard. There’s nothing wrong with appreciating that.

And you don’t? Leiard asked.

I do. But I’ve known her so long that she no longer dazzles me.

You’re friends, Leiard stated.

In a way. We have become... familiar with each other. We have mutual concerns.

You were lovers once.

Briefly.

Leiard fell silent. Mirar shook his head. It was a strange situation, being with Emerahl. Like introducing two friends, one of whom he had already told everything he knew about the other. Which was a little unfair for Emerahl.

But it was nice to see her through fresh eyes.

Talking to Leiard made Mirar feel a little disorientated, however. He took a deep breath, cleared his mind, then continued his descent. Only when both feet were on the ground did he relax again.

Emerahl untied him, then let one end of the rope go and pulled on the other until it slithered down to tangle in the vegetation at her feet. She coiled it quickly and efficiently, swung it over her shoulder, then started along the bottom of the ravine. Mirar shouldered his pack and followed.

They were both familiar with climbing now. He had lost count of the number of times they had scaled walls of rock. This was typical Si territory. The mountains were steep and cracked, full of vertical slices of rock. They looked as if someone had dropped huge mounds of clay onto the world then stabbed at them repeatedly with giant knives. Even on a small scale the surface of exposed ground was fractured in this way, making walking difficult and dangerous. The bottoms of valleys and ravines were easier to traverse, as the cracks and crevasses had filled with soil over time to make a smoother floor. There they had only to navigate through the dense undergrowth of the forest.

No human had made tracks through this land. Not even the Si, who did not like to live this close to landwalker habitations. Animals occasionally did, and they had worn narrow, winding paths through the vegetation. Still, it was slow-going. He and Emerahl had been travelling for a month but had ventured only a little way into the northern part of Si. Before the Siyee had been created, this part of Ithania had been known as The Wilds.

Now that’s what Emerahl and I are classified as, according to the gods, Mirar mused. “Wilds.” I wonder if they mean to imply that we are undomesticated? Uncivilized? Barbaric, perhaps.

Maybe unrestrained, disorderly, violent, dangerous, Leiard suggested.

None are true, Mirar replied. In their day, he and Emerahl had represented great skill in magic. His Dreamweavers had provided order in a chaotic world. They were peaceful, non-violent and certainly not dangerous. Emerahl had been revered for her healing and wisdom.

There was another meaning for “wild.” It could be a random force that could upset plans in either a beneficial or disastrous way.

This, perhaps, is the true reason the gods chose that label for us, Mirar thought Upsetting the gods’ plans sounds like a worthwhile reason to exist. Trouble is, I have no idea what their plans are so how am I to upset them?

The ravine had widened. He could hear the sound of water. Lots of water. They must be nearing a river. There was a lightness to Emerahl’s steps now. He saw her emerge into sunlight ahead, turn to the left and smile.

She’s definitely pleased about something, he thought. Lengthening his stride, he caught up with her. She was standing at the edge of a drop where the ravine ended abruptly. Following her gaze, he saw what she was smiling at.

A waterfall. Two steep slopes met far above it, channelling the river to a cliff edge. Water cascaded down into a wide, deep pool before chuckling eagerly over a rocky riverbed that curved below them, then away to their right. Mist billowed up from the fall, keeping the air dense with moisture.

“How pretty,” he observed.

Emerahl gave him a sidelong look. “It is, isn’t it? Let’s find a tree to wind this rope around.”

After several minutes they had both climbed down the drop, after first lowering their packs with magic. Emerahl crossed the river by jumping from rock to rock. When she started toward the waterfall, Mirar hesitated before following. After travelling through this rough country for a month and seeing plenty of grand and attractive natural scenery, he didn’t feel any inclination to explore a waterfall. He’d rather reach their destination sooner and have a good long rest.

Emerahl moved closer and closer to the fall of water. The pounding was loud in his ears. She began to climb the smooth boulders beside the fall. He stopped to watch her. Looking back, she smiled and beckoned.

Shrugging, he followed. Scaling the boulders took all his attention. When he had reached a narrow length of flat pebbly ground he looked up and found her grinning. Then he saw what she had discovered. Behind the waterfall was a cave.

She moved inside. Feeling a mild curiosity, he followed. The cave dripped with moisture. It was larger than he expected, the back hidden in darkness.

He turned to look out at the wall of water. The constant, unvarying movement was hypnotic.

“Mirar.”

Dragging his eyes away, he turned to find Emerahl looking over her shoulder at him. She had created a light and he could see his first impression had been wrong. There was no back to the cave. It was the beginning of a tunnel.

Curiosity grew and deepened. He moved to her side.

“You know this place?” he said.

“I’ve been here before.”

“Is this our destination?”

“It might be. Or it might be a good place to stay for the night. Now, no more questions.”

Her last words were firm. He smiled at her tone, then walked beside her as she moved down the tunnel.

Out of habit, he counted his steps. He had passed three hundred when they reached a large cavern. Emerahl’s shoulders were tense as she started toward the center. Her steps slowed and she appeared to be listening to something.

After a moment she smiled. Her pace did not quicken, however. She moved steadily forward. Reaching the center of the cavern, she turned to face him.

“Did you sense it?”

He frowned. “Sense what?”

She took his arm, drew him back the way they had come for about ten steps, then stopped.

“Try to use one of your Gifts. Make a light like mine.”

He reached for magic. Nothing came. He tried again with no success. Alarmed, he stared at her.

“What...?”

“It is a void. A place in the world where there is no magic.”

“But how is that possible?”

“I don’t know.” She put a hand on his shoulder and gently pushed him back toward the center of the room. He yielded reluctantly. Looking up, he noticed that her spark of light still floated above them.

“How are you doing that then?”

“I drew the magic for it before we stepped into the void,” she told him. “Now try again.”

He reached for magic and felt it flow into him. He channelled it out to form his own light.

“Good,” she said, nodding. “It is still the same. There is magic in the center of the room. It is ringed by a void. The gods, who are beings of magic, can’t cross the void, so they can’t see you here. Not unless they look through the eyes of someone standing outside the void.”

He moved around slowly. Now that she had drawn his attention to the void he could sense it easily. He started moving across to the other side.

“Don’t leave!” Emerahl warned. “Come back. Now that you know what this place is, you can’t leave it. If the gods are watching they might read your mind and... and...”

Her brow was creased with worry. He walked back to her side. “If they were watching me arrive, they’d know where I was anyway.”

Her gaze was intense. “Do you think it’s likely they were watching you?”

He grimaced and turned away. “It’s possible. I don’t know...”

“You still can’t leave. If they don’t know what this place is, I’d rather they didn’t find out.”

“You mean to keep me in here forever?”

She shook her head. “Only as long as it takes for me to teach you to hide your thoughts from them.”

He considered her thoughtfully. He had learned that skill long ago, but had forgotten it when he lost his memory. It was difficult to relearn without the help of someone who could detect thoughts or emotions. Now was a good time to relearn it.

“And then?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. You asked me to take you away. You didn’t say why or where. I guessed you wanted to go somewhere safe. I’ve taken you to the safest place I know.” She smiled crookedly. “I’m also guessing that you need to sort out a few things in your mind. If you want help with that, I’ll do what I can.”

He looked around the cavern. It was not the cozy hut in the middle of the forest that he had been hoping for, but the void made up for that. It would have to do. Slipping the straps of his pack off his shoulders, he set it down on the hard stone floor.

“Then I guess we had better start decorating.”

4

It was night. It was always night.

An eerie light hung about the ground. She could not see its source. It made the faces around her appear even more ghoulish.

Her path was blocked by a corpse. She stepped over it and moved on.

I’m looking for something. What am I looking for?

She thought hard.

A way out. An end to the battlefield. Escape. Because...

Movement in the corner of her eye set her heart racing with dread. She did not want to look, but did. All was still.

Another body blocked her path: a priest, his upper torso and head blackened and scorched. She stepped over him reluctantly.

Don’t look down.

Something below her moved. Her eyes were lured downward. The priest stared up at her and she froze in horror. He grinned at her, then before she could step away, his scorched hand grabbed her ankle.

:Owaya!

She jumped at the urgent, unexpected shout in her mind. Suddenly she was staring at the ceiling of her bedroom. Her heart was pounding. Her skin felt hot and sweaty. Her stomach was clenched.

“Scare Owaya?”

A small form leapt onto the bed. With the moonlight behind him, she could see the distinctive fluffy tail and small ears of her veez twitching with concern.

“Mischief,” she breathed.

“Owaya ‘fraid?”

She drew herself up onto her elbows. “Just a dream. Gone now.”

Whether he understood or not, she couldn’t guess. Did veez grasp the concept of dreams? She had seen him twitch and mutter in his sleep, so she knew he had them. Whether he remembered them, or understood that they weren’t reality, she couldn’t guess.

He moved across the bed and curled up beside her legs. The pressure of his small body against hers was comforting. Lying back down, she stared up at the ceiling and sighed.

How long will I have these nightmares for? Months? Years?

She felt vaguely disappointed at herself, and at the gods. Surely being a White meant she didn’t have to endure bad dreams as a consequence of a war in defense of Northern Ithania and all Circlians? Though the Gifts that they had given her protected her from age and injury, they did not appear to include protection against nightmares. Surely the gods didn’t mean for her to suffer like this?

Dreamweavers could help me.

She sighed again. Dreamweavers. Now there was a matter to prick her conscience. She knew removing the Dreamweavers’ influence over people by encouraging priests and priestesses to absorb their healing knowledge was ultimately the right thing to do. She would save the souls of people who otherwise turned from the gods. It just seemed too... too sneaky.

After the meeting at the Altar she had decided she’d better find out if any healer priests and priestesses were willing to work with Dreamweavers before approaching Dreamweaver Adviser Raeli. She had told herself she was being efficient - she could ask if any were willing to travel to Si at the same time - but she knew she was putting off the moment when she would have to start being sneaky.

Several volunteers had come forward. She had been expecting enthusiasm for the post in Si, but had been pleasantly surprised by the numbers interested in working with Dreamweavers. All had been impressed and humbled by what they had seen in the aftermath of the battle. Many were eager to learn from Dreamweavers, though for some it was out of a determination to match or surpass the heathens in knowledge and skill rather than because of any newfound respect for the cult.

She had delayed further by finding a location for them to work in. It needed to be a place where neither Dreamweavers nor Circlians had greater influence. She had found a disused storeroom near the docks, not too far from the edge of the poor area of the city. She had only to arrange for the building to be cleaned up and appropriately furnished and stocked, and decide what to call it.

Before then, however, she needed an answer from the Dreamweavers. Unable to put it off any longer, she had arranged to meet with Raeli.

Auraya rolled onto her side. She was wide awake now and doubted she’d get to sleep again for hours. Her heart was no longer pounding but it was still beating a little too fast.

She thought of the question she had asked Juran. “What of the whole range of mind-healing skills - of mind links and dream links?” He obviously did not like the idea of priests and priestesses learning those skills, but if Circlians were to replace Dreamweavers they would have to adopt all the heathens’ practices.

She sighed. The nightmares she was having were proof of the need to have priests and priestesses learn dream-healing skills. She could understand why any ordinary man or woman would seek a Dreamweaver’s help in stopping dreams like these.

Perhaps I should seek a Dreamweaver’s help. I’m supposed to be convincing people they’re harmless. What would convince them more than if I used their dream-healing services?

She could not see Juran approving of a White allowing a Dreamweaver into her mind - or even an ordinary priest or priestess exploring her thoughts and discovering their secrets.

Perhaps if she watched the mind of a Dreamweaver performing a dream healing on another person she would learn the knack of it... and be able to pass the knowledge on to one of the other White... and they could...

Her thoughts drifted. She was talking to Mairae, but it was nonsense. The other White kept laughing and saying they didn’t understand. Frustrated, Auraya stepped out of the window to fly away, but she couldn’t quite control her movements. A wind kept blowing her sideways. She floated into a cloud and was surrounded by a chill whiteness.

Out of that whiteness appeared a glowing figure. She felt her heart lighten. Chaia smiled and moved closer. His face was so clear. She could see every eyelash.

My dreams are never this vivid...

He leaned forward to kiss her.

... or this interesting.

His lips met hers. It was no chaste, affectionate brush of magic. She felt his touch as if he were real.

Suddenly she was sitting up on her elbows in bed again. Her heart was pounding, but not from fear. Lingering feelings of elation melted away, leaving her disturbed.

What am I thinking? Gods, I hope Chaia wasn’t watching me!

She tried to gather her thoughts. It wasn’t intentional. It was just a dream. She couldn’t control her dreams. Ah, if only I could!

She lay back down, patting Mischief as he gave a sleepy whine at her movement.

A dream, she told herself. Surely Chaia wouldn’t have been offended by that?

Even so, it was a long time before she fell asleep again.

It wasn’t easy staying awake. Imi stared at the ceiling, tracing the marks made hundreds of years before by the tools of cave-carvers.

From the other side of the room came a soft wheezing.

At last!

She smiled and slowly began to climb out of the pool. It was one of Teiti’s duties to stay close to her at night in case she fell ill or called for help. Curtains dividing the room gave Imi some privacy, but they did not block sounds.

Years before she had done something about that. She’d quietly complained to her father about her aunt’s snoring and suggested walls be built around the guardian’s sleeping pool. He had agreed, but she suspected only because Teiti had been the first guardian Imi had liked; he didn’t want to have to find her a new one.

A single curved wall had been built beside the guardian’s pool, not quite meeting the room’s wall. Imi had told her father she been hoping for a complete room, including a door, but he only smiled and asked how Teiti was supposed to hear Imi call out for help if she was completely shut away.

Imi found that the curved wall did block noises enough to allow her to creep about without waking her aunt. Ironically, Teiti had not been a snorer in those days, but had recently developed the habit. Now Imi had two reasons to be grateful for the wall.

She brushed droplets of moisture off her skin, then paused to listen for Teiti’s snoring. Earlier that day, Imi had sent her aunt on several errands - tasks that only the princess’s guardian could carry out - in order to wear Teiti out. As she’d hoped, her aunt had wanted to retire early and had quickly fallen into a deep sleep.

The soft wheeze of Teiti’s breathing continued. Imi walked over to a carving on the wall. Reaching behind, she found the bolt that held it fast and carefully pulled it aside. The carving swung outward like a door, revealing a hole in the wall.

A large box lay on the floor under the carving. She stepped on top of it, then climbed into the hole. Looking back, she wedged her webbed toes in a bolt loop on the back of the carving and pulled it closed.

It was utterly dark in the tunnel. Imi crawled forward, bothered less by the lack of light than by the closeness of the tunnel. She had grown quite a bit in the last year, and soon she would have trouble fitting into the small space.

When the sound of her breathing changed subtly, she knew she was near the end of the tunnel. She reached forward and touched a hard surface. Tracing her fingertips over it, she found the bolt and slid it open.

The hatch became visible as it opened and allowed in a faint light. She crept forward until her head was exposed. The inside of a wooden cupboard surrounded her. She paused to listen, then crawled farther forward so she could put her eye to the crack between the cupboard doors. The narrow room before her was empty and dim. Grabbing the frame of the hatch, she pulled herself out of the tunnel, unlatched the cupboard doors and stepped out.

She went straight to the door of the room and peered through the little spy-hole in its center. It was high up, and she had only recently been able to reach it. Before she had been forced to open the door a crack to check outside.

The passage beyond the door was empty. Satisfied, she turned to regard the room. The walls on either side were a mass of pipes. The end of each flared outward and were shaped like ears. Her father had told her long ago that he had a device that allowed him to listen into other people’s conversations. He had never shown her this room, however: she had found it herself.

What he had shown her, years before, was the hole behind the carving in her room. He’d told her she was to hide there if the palace was attacked by bad people. She didn’t know whether he feared attack by landwalkers or from bad Elai. The landwalker raiders that had robbed and attacked Elai in the past couldn’t enter the city. They couldn’t hold their breath long enough to swim along the underwater entrance.

If her father hadn’t meant for her to discover the room, she reasoned, he wouldn’t have shown her the tunnel behind the carving. For years now she had been venturing here every few weeks to listen in on conversations in and out of the palace.

Through the device she had learned a great deal about many important people, and that people in different parts of the city lived very different lives. Sometimes she envied the other children she overheard. Sometimes she didn’t.

Though she knew her father used this room, he had never discovered her here. She was also lucky that Teiti had never woken and found her missing, or caught Imi entering the hole behind the carving.

Moving to one of the pipes, she put her ear to it. The voices that came whispering down the tube were quiet, but soon her hearing adjusted and she began to make out the words.

“... not marry him, mother! He is more than twenty years older than me!”

It was the voice of her cousin, Yiti. Imi frowned. Had she chosen the wrong pipe? No, she was definitely listening to the one that came from the jewellers’ cave. She put her ear back to the opening.

“You will do as your father tells you, Yiti,” a woman replied calmly. “You will marry him, have his children, and when he dies of old age you will still be young enough to enjoy yourself. Now have a look at this one. Isn’t it pretty?”

“Young enough? I will be an old crone! Who will want me then?”

“You will be no older than I am now.”

“Yes. An old crone with nothing to...”

Imi pulled away from the pipe. Though she sympathized with Yiti, she couldn’t spend the whole night doing so. Her cousin and aunt must be visiting the jewellers’ cave in order to buy something for the wedding.

She had tried the pipe to the jewellers’ cave first because it was one of the places the traders might go to sell their wares. There was a good chance they’d talk about sea bells.

But they weren’t there. She considered where else they might be. At home, perhaps. Moving to a pipe that came from one of the trader’s homes, she listened carefully.

The pipe offered only silence. She tried a few more homes and even the Main Room of the Palace, but though she heard the voices of other members of the traders’ families, or their servants, she heard nothing from the traders themselves.

Frustrated, she selected pipes at random. After hearing countless snatches of conversation, she caught a laugh that sounded much like one of the traders. It was a good laugh. One that put people at ease. Which was probably useful to a trader, she realized suddenly. He wanted people to relax, and relaxed people bought things. She’d noticed that about her aunt. If Teiti was annoyed or unhappy when she was at the market, she hardly looked at the wares in the stalls. If she was relaxed, she was much more likely to buy Imi a treat.

“... wager?”

“Yes. Ten.”

“Twenty.”

“Twenty, eh? Matched!”

“You?”

A sigh. “Out.”

“Settled? Yes? Turn.”

There was a triumphant chuckle, and a groan, then the light sound of corrie shells clinking against each other. She recognized the voices of the traders she’d overheard, plus a few more. They were playing squares, she guessed.

For several more rounds the traders’ comments related to their gaming, then they took a break to eat a late-night snack and drink drai. They began to talk of their families. She waited patiently for the talk to turn to their profession.

“Gili says he saw raiders off Xiti Island three days ago.”

“Not raiders,” a rough voice said. “Divers.”

Several of the traders cursed.

“Knew we shouldn’t have waited.”

“It was a gamble we had to take. It takes time for sea bells to get big.”

“And a lot less time for the landwalkers to steal them.”

“Thin, pale-skinned thieves!”

Imi’s heart skipped a beat. So the sea bells were somewhere near Xiti Island...

“Steal?” The one with the easy laugh gave a humorless chuckle. “It’s not stealing if nobody owns it. Nobody owns anything they can’t defend. We can’t even defend our own islands.”

“Huan made us the people of the sea. All treasures of the sea belong to us.”

“Then why doesn’t the goddess punish these divers? Why doesn’t she punish the raiders? If she means for us to have all the treasures of the ocean, she would stop the landwalkers taking them, or make us capable of stopping them.”

“Huan wants us to take care of ourselves.”

“How do you know that?”

“Either she means for things to be this way, or we have made some error.”

Imi sighed with frustration. Stop talking about the gods! she thought. Talk about the sea bells again. But the conversation fragmented into two different discussions.

“We should never have put aside so much of our knowledge of metallurgy. Or we should trade goods for swords from the mainland.”

“... lone swimmer might succeed where a group would not. The harvest was small, but better than...”

“What’s the use? They rust away in...”

“... dangerous. What if...”

“... you care for them properly. You need to...”

“... time it well. The right weather conditions... harder to see below the...”

“... surface with something to prevent corrosion. The landwalkers...”

“... won’t dive during bad weather.”

Imi’s mind was spinning from the effort of deciphering the different conversations. The trouble was, she wanted to hear both. The traders’ discussion of how a lone Elai might swim in and take some of the sea bells excited her, but she was also intrigued by the other traders’ interest in trading with landwalkers.

A distant tapping caught at her attention. She reluctantly pulled away from the pipe, then felt her heart constrict as she realized she was hearing footsteps drawing nearer. She leapt away from the pipe and dove into the cupboard. Just as she pulled the doors closed she heard the sound of the main door opening. She froze.

Looking between the cupboard doors, she felt a thrill of apprehension as she recognized the broad shoulders of the man strolling up to the pipes. At the same time she could not help smiling with fondness. Her father was humming to himself. She recognized the song as a popular new tune by Idi, the beautiful new head of the palace singers.

He bent to listen at the pipe that led to the singers’ cave. Imi watched, her heart racing. He was only a few steps away. Only the cupboard doors stood between them.

After a moment he straightened, smoothed his waist wrap, then swaggered out of the room.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Imi turned around. She grasped the frame of the hatch and pulled herself into the tunnel. Only when she had reached the other end did her heart stop racing.

She slipped out of the tunnel quietly, pushed the carving into place, and tiptoed back to her pool. Moving carefully to avoid splashing, she slipped into the water and felt the comforting coolness as it surrounded her.

I know where the sea bells are now, she thought. All I have to do is find a way to get away from Teiti and my guards, and slip out of the city. There are only two ways out of the city: the staircase to the lookout and the Main Pool... When did I decide I’d go, rather than send someone?

It wasn’t until the next morning that she began to wonder why her father had been eavesdropping on the singers’ cave.

5

The old storehouse was full of tantalizing smells. The odors were of wooden shipping trunks and straw mixed with the variety of goods they had contained, spiced with the salty tang of the sea breeze coming in from the docks a few streets away.

In one room the pungent odor of hroomya, the dye that produced an intense blue, overwhelmed all other scents. In another the warm smell of oiled leather dominated. One room was highly perfumed, while another’s stained floor reeked like a drink house. Goods from all lands of Northern Ithania had been stored here, from places Auraya had never seen.

A knocking brought her out of her reverie. She realized she had wandered far down the corridor and hastily turned back. As she reached the hall in which the former owner had conducted his business with customers, she stopped. Am I ready to do this?

She took a deep breath and made herself walk over to the main doors.

As ready as I’ll ever be, she told herself. All I can do is try to keep any less pleasant consequences as small as possible.

She straightened as she reached the heavy wooden doors. Grasping the handles, she pulled them inward. They parted and swung open with a satisfyingly impressive creak. Auraya smiled at the woman in Dreamweaver robes standing behind them.

Raeli, Dreamweaver Adviser to the White, gave Auraya a wary look. She had never made any attempt to hide her distrust of the White, but had always been cooperative. Auraya read from the woman’s mind that this strange meeting place had sparked both curiosity and wariness in the woman.

“Come in, Dreamweaver Adviser Raeli,” Auraya said, beckoning.

“Thank you, Auraya of the White,” Raeli replied. As she stepped inside her eyes moved around, taking in the storeroom’s hall and the corridor that led away. “Why have you brought me here?”

Auraya chuckled. “You come straight to the point. I like that about you.”

She indicated that Raeli should follow her, then, without waiting to see if she did, started walking slowly down the corridor. “Jarime is a large city and is growing ever larger. Until now the sick had to visit the Temple or send someone there to collect a healer priest when they needed the help of Circlian healers.” She glanced over her shoulder and was pleased to see that Raeli was following. Slowing so that the Dreamweaver caught up, she gestured at the empty rooms. “It is a long journey for some. To alleviate that problem, we are going to turn this place into a hospice.”

Raeli considered this news. It is a good idea, she thought. It is about time the Circlians took better care of the poor living in this district. The distance to the Temple is a problem that some people overcome by consulting us Dreamweavers instead... Are the Circlians trying to take our custom away? Why has Auraya invited me here to tell me this? Her plans must involve Dreamweavers. At once Raeli felt a rising suspicion.

“What do you want of us?” she blurted.

Auraya stopped at the entrance to the room that smelled of leather and turned to face the Dreamweaver. “To invite your people to join us. Dreamweavers and healer priests working together. I’d say it was for the first time, but it has happened before.”

Raeli frowned. “When?”

“After the battle.”

The Dreamweaver stared at Auraya. So they admit we were useful, she thought. It would be nice if they thanked us. Or we got some kind of acknowledgment for our work... but I suppose this is an acknowledgment. Her skepticism faltered for a moment and she felt a small thrill of hope.

Auraya looked away. “Of course, it might not work. Several healer priests have volunteered to work here with you, but they may find they are less tolerant and open-minded than they believe. The sick who come here might not accept your help. I doubt we will overcome more than a century of prejudice in a few weeks, months or even years. But,” she shrugged, “we can only try.”

The Dreamweaver moved into the opposite room, her nose wrinkling at whatever smell lingered there.

“I can’t answer for my people. It is a decision for the Elder.”

“Of course.”

Raeli glanced back. “This place will need a good clean.”

Auraya smiled ruefully. “Some rooms more than others. Would you like to have a look around?” She saw the answer in Raeli’s mind. “Come then. I’ll show you - and tell you my plans for modifications. I’d like your opinion on how we should change the water supply system.”

This time, as she continued down the corridor, Raeli walked beside her. Auraya described how both cold and heated water could be piped through the building. Each room would be fitted with a drain to allow for easy cleaning. There were operating rooms for surgery, and storerooms for medicines and tools. Raeli made simple suggestions in a quiet voice and thought frequently of older, more experienced Dreamweavers who could give better advice.

When they had explored every room they returned to the main hall. Raeli was quiet and thoughtful, musing that she had always laughed at the title of Dreamweaver Adviser because she didn’t believe the White would ever listen to her advice. Then suddenly she looked up at Auraya.

“Have you heard from Leiard?”

Auraya felt a jolt inside. She stared at Raeli in surprise.

“No,” she forced herself to answer. “You?”

Raeli shook her head. Scanning the woman’s thoughts, Auraya understood that Leiard had not just disappeared from her own life. No Dreamweavers had seen him since the battle. The Dreamweaver Elder, Arleej, was concerned about him and had asked all Dreamweavers to report to her if he was seen.

She felt a stab of worry and guilt. Had he fled everything and everyone out of fear that Juran or the gods would punish him for daring to be her lover? Or was he simply obeying Juran’s orders? But Juran had said he had ordered Leiard to leave, not to disappear completely.

He didn’t order Leiard to sleep with a whore, either, she reminded herself. She started toward the hallway and Raeli followed. He must have known I’d read his mind the next time I saw him - whenever that might be - and see his infidelity.

But he had decided the affair was over, so he wasn’t actually being disloyal, she reminded herself. That might have been forgivable if we’d been parted for a time, but we’d been separated for only a day. She smothered a sigh. Stop thinking about it, she told herself. It will get you nowhere.

Opening the doors, Auraya stepped out into the sunlight. Two platten waited in front: the hired one that had brought Raeli, and the gold and white one that Auraya had travelled in. She turned to Raeli.

“Thank you for coming, Dreamweaver Adviser Raeli.”

Raeli inclined her head slightly. “It was my pleasure, Auraya of the White. I will pass on your proposal to Dreamweaver Arleej.”

Auraya nodded. She watched as Raeli climbed into the platten. As the vehicle trundled away a sound came to mind: the creak of a spring as an animal trap was set. I am like a hunter, she thought. Knowing I need to set my traps for the good of others, but not liking it much.

Holding a bucket out to the waterfall, Emerahl let it fill. Even with the vessel just touching the fall, the flow was strong enough to make her arm ache.

She had spent most of the last few days making the cave a more comfortable home. Felling a small tree, she had cut it up and bound lengths of wood together to make two simple beds and a screen behind which she and Mirar could attend to private matters. For those private matters, as well as for holding drinking water and other tasks, she had carved several wooden buckets out of sections of the trunk.

Since Mirar must remain inside the void, the fetching of water and gathering of food was her responsibility - but not one she minded. The forest was a bountiful place, full of edible plants, animals and fungi. Little had changed since she had last stayed here. Without magic and hundreds of years of accumulated knowledge, surviving would have been more difficult. And dangerous, too.

As many plants in the forest were poisonous as not. She had seen several beautiful venomous insects, but they lurked in nooks and holes that only a fool might stick his or her hands in. The larger predatory animals, like leramers or vorns, might have been a problem if she hadn’t had magic to fend them off. She was alert to the beguiling effects of sleepvine, which used a telepathic call to lull animals into resting on its carpet of soft leaves, while slowly winding its limbs around them in a hold that eventually strangled and dismembered. Long ago she had met a plant breeder who had made himself rich selling a weaker dwarf variety to lords and ladies who had trouble sleeping.

The bucket was overflowing. She grasped the tough rope handle in one hand and picked up the second bucket. This was full of the afternoon’s harvest. With both buckets swinging, she strode into the tunnel.

Emerging into the cavern, she saw that Mirar was lying on his bed, staring at the roof high above. There was an air of melancholy about him. He turned his head to look at her, then slowly sat up.

“Dinner,” she said as she reached him. He said nothing. Setting the buckets down, she looked at the large, smooth boulder she had rolled into the cave two days ago. What had been a shallow natural depression in the stone was now a deep hollow. “Thank you.”

He looked at her, but did not speak.

Leiard must be in control, she decided. It wasn’t the melancholy that told her. Mirar was also prone to low moods, but he would have made a quip or comment as soon as she had appeared. Mirar was, by far, the more verbose of her two companions.

She poured some of the water into the hollow then began tearing the leaves into strips.

“You’re not going to cook those, are you?”

She looked up to find him regarding the ears of fungi dubiously.

“No.” She smiled. “I’ll dry them later. For my new collection.”

“Your collection of...?”

“Medicines. Cures. Amusements.”

“Ah.” His brows rose. She sensed thoughtfulness, then disapproval. The latter, she guessed, was at the realization of what she meant by “amusements.”

Talking to Leiard was like constantly reminding an elderly man of information he’d forgotten. No doubt he had accessed Mirar’s memories about her even as she had answered, learning that she sometimes worked as a healer and had occasionally been a seller of concoctions for the entertainment of rich nobles. He could also be a bit judgmental.

It wasn’t easy to make conversation with Leiard. He could not answer the questions she normally asked when she wanted to get to know somebody. Questions like: “How long have you been a Dreamweaver? Where were you born? Parents? Siblings?”

Her reluctance to believe he was a real person also held her back. He was probably an aberration - a personality that had somehow become grafted to Mirar’s. Though Mirar could not remember why or how this had happened, or if he’d welcomed the grafting or not, he was clearly not happy with the situation. She worried that by talking to Leiard, she might strengthen his sense of identity and so make his hold on Mirar stronger, but she also doubted Leiard was going to go away if she simply ignored him.

Perhaps I need to talk to him in a way that weakens him instead. I could try to make him doubt his sense of identity. That might help Mirar regain full control.

But what if she was wrong? What if Leiard was the real person and Mirar was just a residue of link memories - as Leiard believed? Was there any way of proving who was the true owner of that body?

She stopped working and stared at the stone depression full of water. Mirar’s face was reflected in the surface, but the expression on it belonged to someone else.

Mirar is a Wild. He has Gifts no ordinary sorcerer has. The ability to halt the aging of his body. The ability to heal perfectly, with no scarring. If he can still do these things then he must be Mirar.

She could test him. A few exercises to prove he was a Wild might do it.

Unless Leiard is a Wild too.

She shook her head. While not impossible, it was too great a coincidence. What chance was there that a new Wild had been born looking just like Mirar?

Unless... unless he hadn’t been born looking like Mirar, but, having gained so many link memories that he was no longer sure of his identity, he had subconsciously started to change his appearance. Mirar had told her he had looked considerably different two years ago.

She shuddered at the thought. To have one’s own personality slowly subverted by another’s to that extent...

Yet at the same time she felt a selfish elation. Did she really care if someone she didn’t know lost their identity if it meant she got Mirar back?

I am an evil, evil woman, she thought.

She lifted the fungi out of the bucket and set it aside. In the bottom of the container were several freshwater shrimmi lying in a finger-width of water, their feelers still waving weakly. Drawing a little magic, she heated the water in the stone depression. When it was boiling rapidly, she grabbed the shrimmi and tossed them in the water, two at a time. They gave a high-pitched shriek as they died, but it was a quicker death than letting them slowly suffocate in the air.

Leiard recoiled slightly, then leaned closer. She sensed a sudden lightening of his mood and when he looked up at her and smiled she knew Mirar was back.

“Mmm. Dinner looks good. What’s for dessert?”

“Nothing.”

He pouted. “I sit here slaving over the cookware all day and you can’t even find me a bit of fruit or honey?”

“I could get you some flame berries. I’ve heard they’re quite sweet - on the tongue.”

He grimaced. “No, thank you. I prefer to be blissfully unaware of my intestines and their function.”

She lifted the shrimmi out of the water then added the shredded leaves. They wilted quickly. When they were cooked to her satisfaction, she picked up two wooden plates and divided the meal. From jars nearby she took some salt and toasted nuts and sprinkled them over the vegetable - a little seasoning for a bland but nutritious dish.

Mirar accepted a plate and ate with his usual enthusiasm. This was one habit Leiard also exhibited. They both appreciated food. Emerahl smiled. There was something lacking in a person who didn’t enjoy good food.

“What else did you do while I was out?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Thought. Talked to myself.” His nose wrinkled. “Argued with myself.”

“Oh? Who won?”

“I did, I think.”

“What did you argue about?”

He peeled a shrimmi and tossed its shell into a bucket. “Who owns this body.”

“What did you conclude?”

“I do.” He looked down. “I recognize it. You recognize it. Therefore it must be mine.”

She smiled. “I thought I’d come up with a way to prove that today. If you could prove you were a Wild, you would know that your body was yours.”

He chuckled. “And?”

“What if Leiard is a new Wild who has been infected with your link memories and you have been using his powers to change his body to make it look like your own?”

“Infected?” He looked hurt. “That’s not a flattering way to look at it.”

“No,” she agreed. She met his eyes and held them.

He looked away. “It is possible. I don’t know. I wish I could remember.”

She sensed his frustration and felt sympathy. Then she felt a flash of inspiration. “Memory. Perhaps that is the key. You must regain those memories you’ve lost in order to know who you are.”

Mirar looked uneasy. “If all I am is a manifestation of link memories there will be nothing to regain.”

Standing up, she began to pace back and forth. “Yes, but if you are not, you will have memories that Leiard can’t possibly have.”

“Like what?”

She drew in a deep breath. “The tower dream. I suspect it is a memory of your death.”

“A dream of death that proves I’m alive?” He smiled crookedly. “How would that prove this is my body? It might simply be another link memory. I might have projected the experience to another, who passed it on to others, who passed it on to Leiard.”

“But neither you nor Leiard recall having this dream.”

“No.” He looked thoughtful. “Yet you believe I’m the source.”

She sat down. “The dream grew stronger the closer I came to you. We are now far from other people, yet the dream is still vivid. I only dream it when you are also asleep.”

“How could I be projecting a dream I don’t know I’m having?” he asked, though from his tone she knew he already guessed the answer. He was, after all, well versed in the ways of dreams.

“We don’t always remember our dreams,” she reminded him. “And this is a dream you may not want to remember.”

“So if I made myself remember the dream I might remember other things. Like why there is another person in my head.”

“That shouldn’t be so hard for the founder of the Dreamweavers.”

He chuckled. “I have a reputation to live up to.”

“Yes.” She held his gaze. “A reputation that hasn’t diminished over the last hundred years. If you are Mirar, the gods aren’t exactly going to be declaring a festival day to welcome you back. It’s time I started teaching you how to hide your mind. Shall we begin now?”

Nodding resignedly, he put aside his empty plate.

Dreamweaver Elder Arleej poured two glasses of ahm. She carried them to the chairs by the fire and handed one to Neeran. The old Dreamweaver accepted the drink gratefully and gulped it down.

Arleej took a sip and watched her old friend closely. He had said nothing at the news, just moved to a seat and collapsed into it. Lowering herself into the opposite chair, she set the glass aside.

“So what do you think we should do?”

Neeran pressed his hands to his face. “Me? I can’t make this sort of decision.”

“No. You can’t. Last I recall, you weren’t the leader of the Dreamweavers.”

He removed his hands and gave her a withering look. “Then why do you always follow my advice?”

She chuckled. “Because it’s always good.”

He grimaced. “I want to advise caution, but a part of me wants us to snatch up this opportunity before it turns out to be another whim of Auraya’s and she finds something else to occupy her.”

Arleej frowned. Sometimes she almost regretted telling Neeran of Leiard’s affair with Auraya of the White. It had lowered his opinion of Auraya. His disapproval reminded her to not be too enchanted by this White who favored Dreamweavers. When Neeran had declared Auraya was the source of Leiard’s downfall, he was not far from the truth.

Though where Leiard was now, Arleej could not guess. He had disappeared after the battle and she had not been able to contact him via dream links. She had been forced to take on Jayim’s training, though she hadn’t regretted it yet. The boy was proving to be an adept and charming student.

Whether Auraya was the reason for Leiard’s disappearance or not, it appeared she still wanted to encourage peace and tolerance between Circlians and Dreamweavers. This latest offer - to start a hospice in Jarime in which Dreamweavers and healer priests and priestesses worked together - was both startling and well-timed. Circlians had seen the good Dreamweavers had done for the wounded on the battlefield. The heathens had proven their worth to the healer priests and priestesses. It made sense that the best push toward peace and tolerance would be in the direction of healing.

“But what’s the catch?” Arleej said aloud.

Neeran looked at her and smiled crookedly. “The catch?”

“Yes. Will Dreamweavers decide the Circlian way of life is better and leave us to join them?”

The old man chuckled. “Or will Circlians decide they prefer our way of life, and we’ll have too many new students to teach?”

She picked up her glass, took a sip, then set it down again. “Just how closely will our people and theirs work? If they have suddenly decided that our medicines and healing methods are worthwhile, will they want to adopt them?”

“Probably. But we have never kept them a secret before.”

“No. And I doubt their interest or tolerance extends to our mind-linking skills.”

Neeran’s nose wrinkled. “There is still a law against dream-linking in most of Northern Ithania. Dreamweavers should avoid linking in any way with their patients if Circlians are observing. I doubt the White’s intention is to trick us into criminal acts so they can lock us away, but we should still exercise caution in these matters.”

“Yes,” she agreed. She turned to regard him. “It sounds as if you are advising me to agree to the offer.”

He met her eyes, then looked away. Slowly he began to nod. “Yes. But... seek the agreement of the others.”

“Very well. We will vote on it. I will dream link with leaders in other lands tonight.” She picked up her glass and handed it to Neeran. “I will need a clear mind.”

He took the glass from her, but didn’t drink. Instead he looked at her, an odd expression on his face.

“I have a terrible feeling that we face a moment of great change. Either we will miss a wonderful opportunity to prove our worth to the people of Northern Ithania or we will make ourselves redundant.”

Arleej shook her head. “Even if the Circlians surpass us in healing, even if they learn to heal through dreams and mind links, they can never be all that we are. Those that seek the truth will always come to us.”

“Yes.” He smiled and raised the glass. “Here’s to link memories.”

6

A week had not improved the mood of the Servants. Reivan found herself wondering several times a day if their coldness was directed only at her. Conversations ended when she drew near. When she approached a Servant with a question or request she was dealt with quickly and dismissively. Sometimes when she passed two Servants in a corridor, one would lean across to the other and murmur something.

She told herself she was simply not used to the Servants’ ways. The Servants of the monastery she had grown up in had been quiet and reserved, but she had become accustomed to more stimulating company in recent years. The Thinkers might not have respected her, but she could always engage some of them in conversation - or at least a debate. She was used to being among livelier, friendlier people, that was all.

Dedicated Servant Drevva and the other Servants who were testing her knowledge and abilities were treating her fairly, acknowledging her strengths and not making too much of her weaknesses, even her obvious lack of Skills. The other hopeful entrants to the Sanctuary were politely friendly in that way young people were to those not of the same age.

The Sanctuary baths more than made up for her cramped little room. Cleanliness was considered essential for a Servant of the Gods, and an hour’s soaking, scouring and rinsing each morning was deemed necessary for every man and woman. Feeling refreshed, Reivan dressed in the plain clothes the Sanctuary had provided her with, then stepped out of the room. As she passed a doorway she overheard a snatch of conversation from the steam-wreathed soaking room within.

“... ordain Imenja’s pet.”

“She passed the tests? I thought she was unskilled.”

“The order came from the Second Voice. I’m to allow her through so long as she passed the other tests.”

Reivan froze. Imenja’s pet? They had to be talking about her. None of the other entrants had any relationship with Imenja, as far as she knew.

“I can’t understand it,” the first voice added. With a shock, Reivan recognized Dedicated Servant Drevva. “What’s the point of making her a Servant when she has no magical ability? Why not just make her a counsellor?”

Reivan’s stomach sank.

“I heard it’s what she asked for as reward.”

“What! Being a Servant isn’t something to be handed out like sweets to a good child!”

“Hmm,” a third voice said. “This makes me like her even less. If she was meant to be a Servant, she’d have been born with more ability.”

The sound of approaching footsteps drew Reivan’s attention back to her immediate surroundings. Aware that anyone seeing her lingering by the door would suspect her of spying - and she obviously did not need to give the Servants any more reasons to hate her - she continued on.

Back in her room, she sat down on the edge of the bed and sighed.

So I wasn’t being overly suspicious after all. They are treating me differently. And it’s because I’m unskilled.

Which wasn’t a surprise, really. Being Skilled was what set them apart. Just as being clever gave the Thinkers their standing in society. It was ironic to discover that the Servants were as insecure about their superiority over others as the Thinkers were.

It’s their weakness, she thought. Not a weakness I can easily take advantage of, however. I’m not here to best the Servants at some challenge. I’m here to join them.

The footsteps of someone in the passage outside her door suddenly stopped, and she saw something slide under her door. Rising, she stooped to pick it up.

It was a small scroll, slightly squashed where it had been forced under the door. She chuckled as she saw it was addressed to “Servant Reivan Reedcutter.” I’m not a Servant yet, she thought, amused.

Turning the scroll over, she felt her amusement evaporate as she saw the seal of the Thinkers. Breaking it, she spread open the scroll and began to read.

Servant Reivan Reedcutter

It has been reported to us that you have entered the Sanctuary with the intent to become a Servant. Since this requires the full dedication of your time, assets and life to the gods, clearly you cannot fulfil the requirements of a Thinker. A man cannot be ruled by two masters. Your membership has been revoked.

Prime Thinker Hitte Sandrider

Reivan realized her heart was racing. She muttered a curse. If she didn’t pass the tests and become a Servant she would leave the Sanctuary with no home, few assets and no legal means to earning an income from anything but menial tasks. She was risking her future - her life, even - on tests that she could not possibly pass.

No, she thought, taking a deep, calming breath. Imenja has kept her word. She has ordered Drevva to ignore my lack of magical ability. I just have to hope I passed the other tests.

A knock came from her door. She slipped the letter under her mattress then turned to open the door. Dedicated Servant Drevva stood in the passage, holding out a bundle of black cloth.

“Put this on and come to my room,” she ordered.

Reivan closed the door and let the bundle unfold. It was a Servant’s robe. Her heart jolted into rapid beating again and her hands shook as she quickly changed into it. Smoothing the cloth, she wondered how she looked in it. Did it suit her? Did it give her the look of authority she had admired in other Servants?

There was no star pendant of Servitude to go with it. That would be given to her when she finished her noviciate.

I still have so much to learn, she thought. They’re not going to make it easy for me, but perhaps that is for the best. Becoming a Servant shouldn’t be easy. I need to prove I’m worthy of this.

She straightened. And I will prove it. Even if just to justify Imenja’s decision.

Holding on to that feeling of determination, she left her room. Other entrants were dressed in the black, excitedly running up and down the passage and knocking on each others’ doors. One saw her and grinned. She smiled back.

This chaos quickly resolved into a line of black-robed entrants heading to Drevva’s room. The Dedicated Servant was waiting outside her door. She looked at each of them closely, then nodded.

“It is time,” she said. Turning, she led them down the passage to the main corridor, then began to ascend.

Reivan could not help thinking of Drevva’s words in the baths as she followed the group. She felt vaguely betrayed. Until then Reivan had thought the woman the least unfriendly of the Servants she’d met. Drevva had hidden her true feelings well.

Their journey took them steadily uphill. The Lower Sanctuary was a maze of buildings but the corridor cut a straight line through them. Finally they reached the white rendered walls of the Middle Sanctuary. Drevva left them standing in a line before a narrow door through which she disappeared.

One by one the soon-to-be Servant-novices entered the room. When Reivan drew close enough to see through the door she caught glimpses of a large room with black walls. Black tiles covered the floor. Her heart began to race.

This is the Star Room!

She was about to enter the place where the most arcane of ceremonies were held. The place where the Voices communed with the gods. Inside she could see dark-skinned Dekkans from the jungles of the south; pale-skinned, tall men and women of the desert races of Avven; broad-faced, sandy-haired people of Mur, and some that must have mixed bloodlines. All wore black robes. All would witness her become a Servant-novice. Reivan realized she was chewing her fingernails - an old habit from her childhood - and forced her hands back to her sides.

The youth in front of her stepped into the room. With her view now unblocked, Reivan could see the room properly. It had five walls. A channel of silver set into the floor formed the lines of a star, its points meeting the corners of the room. At its center stood a familiar figure. She felt her heart lift.

Imenja.

The Voice held out a hand to the young man, palm outward, fingers spread, and spoke the ritual words. He nervously placed his hand against hers. Reivan heard him murmur something, then Imenja’s reply. Then the Voice made the sign of the star over her chest and the young man followed suit. He bowed his head and hurried away to join the small group of new Servant-novices standing nearby.

Imenja looked up at Reivan, smiled and beckoned.

Taking a deep breath, Reivan walked into the room with what she hoped was dignified grace. She stopped before the Voice. Imenja’s smile widened.

“Reivan of the Thinkers,” she said. “To you we owe much, but that is not why you are here today. You stand before me now because you wish to serve the gods before all else, and because you have proven yourself worthy of the task.” She held out her hand. “Do you swear to serve and obey the gods above all else?”

Reivan pressed her palm lightly against Imenja’s.

“I swear.”

“Then from this moment you will be known as Servant-novice Reivan. You are welcome among us.”

Their hands parted. Reivan was aware of every sound, every shuffle of feet and smothered cough from the watching Servants. Imenja made the sign of the star. Reivan’s hand moved through the symbolic gesture as if it had a mind of its own. She bowed her head and stepped away. Her legs felt weak and shaky as she moved to stand with the other young Servant-novices.

“Today eight young men and women have chosen to dedicate their lives to the gods,” Imenja said, her voice calm. “Welcome them. Teach them. Help them realize their potential. They are our future.”

As she moved out of the center of the star, sounds began to fill the room. Servants stepped away from the wall, their sandals scraping and slapping on the floor. Some approached the new Servant-novices, who appeared to know them. The rest gathered into knots of discussion and voices echoed within the walls. To Reivan’s dismay, Imenja strode to the door and disappeared.

She did not know what to do next, and when nobody stepped forward to instruct her she stood still, watching the people around her. None looked at her. She was surprised to feel a pang of loneliness.

Seeing several Servants leave the room, she decided she could probably slip away, too. She began to wander in the direction of the exit, hoping it would not be considered rude of her to leave.

“Servant-novice Reivan.”

The voice was male and unfamiliar. Reivan turned to find a rather handsome Dedicated Servant approaching. He was Nekaun, one of the few whose name she had taken note of during the war. It is always easier to remember the names of good-looking people, she mused.

He smiled patiently as she respectfully made the sign of the star. “Welcome to the Sanctuary, Reivan,” he said. “I am Nekaun.”

She inclined her head. “Thank you, Dedicated Servant Nekaun.”

“You will make a good Servant.”

There was no hint of derision in his voice. She managed a smile, though she feared it looked more like a grimace.

“I hope so.”

A frown creased his forehead. “I’m guessing you feel you don’t fit in. Am I right?”

She gave a shrug. “I suppose so.”

“Don’t try too hard to do so,” he told her. “Imenja didn’t choose you because you’re like everyone else.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but couldn’t decide on the right words to say. Nekaun smiled. Her heart skipped a beat.

By the gods, he is even more good-looking close up, she thought. Suddenly she didn’t know what to say, but it didn’t matter, as he was now looking around the room.

“So much chatter. Do you know what they’re talking about?”

She shook her head automatically, then smiled as she realized she did know. “Who the next First Voice will be?”

He nodded. “They haven’t stopped gossiping since we got back. It’s only been a week and already I fear for my sanity.” He shook his head, but there was a gleam in his eyes that belied his pained expression.

“I expect you’ll all be trying hard to impress the rest of us in the next few weeks,” she said boldly. Then she felt her face flush. Am I flirting?

“Am I that transparent?” He chuckled. “Of course I am, but do not think the reason I approached you was solely to gain your favor. I do wish you well, and I will be watching your progress with interest.”

She felt herself relax a little at his frankness, though she was not sure why. “That’s just as well. Since I am only a Servant-novice, I will not be voting, and you could hardly be seeking to raise your popularity in the Sanctuary by welcoming me so openly.”

At once she regretted her words. Silly girl. If you keep telling him you’re unpopular he’ll decide you’re right and never talk to you again.

He laughed. “I think you underestimate your position here. Or you are overestimating the power of jealousy to sway a vote. Imenja favors you. When the Servants have finished sulking about that, they will remember who brought you here. When that happens, you will have a whole new range of problems to overcome.”

She could not hold back a bitter laugh. “Thanks for the reassuring words.”

His shoulders lifted. “Just a friendly warning. Now is not the time to be complacent, Reivan. If Imenja intends to make you her confidant and counsellor - which I suspect she does - you will need to learn more about the Sanctuary than just law and theology. You will...” His gaze flickered over her shoulder. “It was pleasant talking to you, Reivan. I hope I have the chance to again.”

“As do I,” she murmured. He walked away. Looking over her shoulder, Reivan saw another Dedicated Servant staring at Nekaun.

Interesting. I wonder what that was about? Is it one of the things he thinks I need to learn about in addition to law and theology?

To her surprise, the suggestion that internal conflicts existed within the Sanctuary had sparked her curiosity. She looked at the faces around her with new interest. It would help if she knew their names.

It is time I found out.

Mirar woke with the distinct feeling that it was too early to be waking up. Then he heard gasping and alarm chased away the last dregs of sleep. He sat up, opened his eyes and created a spark of light.

Emerahl was propped up on one elbow, a hand to her chest as she forced her breathing to slow. She gave him a pained, accusing look.

“The dream?” he asked.

She nodded, then sat up and swung her legs over the edge of her bed.

“You?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. Are you sure I’m the one projecting them?”

“We woke up at the same time,” she pointed out.

“Probably because you woke me.”

She glared at him. “You’re not taking this seriously.”

He drummed his fingers against the frame of his bed. “I have no trouble controlling the dreams I’m aware I’m having. A forgotten dream is either extremely significant or completely insignificant.” He rested his elbows on his knees, then his chin on his fists. “If I was my own patient, I would dream link with him. I’d encourage him to reveal and confront the dream by nudging him into it, and if I had seen snatches of it previously, that would be even easier.”

“You want me to link with you?”

He looked at Emerahl. There had been the slightest hint of reluctance in her voice.

“Only if you are comfortable with it.”

“Of course I’m comfortable with it,” she said defensively. “You’ve rescued me often enough. It’s time I returned the favor.”

He smiled crookedly. “It is. Do you remember how to dream link?”

“Yes.” She pursed her lips. “I’m a little out of practice.”

“We’ll manage,” he assured her. He lay down again. “I’ll link with you in the dream state. Once the connection is made, show me a little of what you’ve been dreaming. Not all of it. Your memory of it should act as a trigger in mine to start the original dream. If it is mine.”

He closed his eyes. Emerahl’s bed creaked as she lay down. For a while she tossed and turned. At one point she muttered darkly about not being able to get to sleep now that he needed her to, then her breathing began to slow and deepen. He let himself sink into a dream trance.

The state of mind he sought hovered between unfettered dreaming and conscious control. In that state he was like a child playing with a toy boat in a stream. The boat was his mind and it went wherever the current took it, but he could only direct it with gentle nudges or by stirring the water, though he could simply pick the boat up if it ventured where he did not want it to go.

:Emerahl, he called. A long silence followed, then a groggy mind touched his.

:Mirar? Hmm, I am definitely out of practice. Shall I show you the dream? she asked.

:Take your time, he said. No need to hurry.

Instead of calming her, his words stirred a mixture of anxiety and agitation. Flashes of thought and images escaped her defense. He saw a scene that was unfamiliar in detail, but familiar in context. A sumptuous room. Beautiful women. Not so good-looking men in fine clothing appraising the women.

At the same time he sensed her desire to hide something from him, lest he be disappointed in her. He had seen enough to comprehend what that was, and felt a flash of anger. She’d done it again. She’d sold her body to men. Why did she do this to herself?

Then the familiar presence of another stirred in the back of his mind.

She is a whore? Leiard’s surprise at this news was tainted with disapproval.

She has been, from time to time, Mirar replied defensively. Always out of necessity.

And you... you have rescued her from that life before.

Yes.

Mirar realized he had drawn away from Emerahl’s mind. He had left the dream-trance state and was fully awake. From the other bed he heard a sigh, then the sound of the bed creaking.

“Mirar?” Emerahl murmured.

Drawing in a deep breath, he sat up and created a light. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her shoulders drooping. Looking up, she met his eyes then looked away.

“You did it again,” he said.

“I had to.” She sighed. “I was being hunted. By priests.”

“So you became a whore? Of all things, you had to choose such a demeaning...” He shook his head. “With your ability to change your age, why resort to that? Why not change into an old crone? Nobody would look twice at you? It’s got to be easier to hide as an old woman than a beautiful—”

“They were looking for a crone,” she told him. “An old woman healer. I couldn’t sell cures. I had to earn money somehow.”

“Then why not be a child? Nobody would suspect a child of being a sorceress, and people would feel compelled to help you.”

She spread her hands. “The change wastes me. You know that. If I’d gone back so far I’d have been too weak to fend for myself. The city was full of desperate children. I needed to be someone the priests wouldn’t want to look at too closely. Someone whose mind they wouldn’t attempt to read.”

“Read?” Mirar frowned. “Priests can’t read minds. Only the White can.”

She looked up at him and shook her head. “You’re wrong. Some can. One of the children I befriended overheard a conversation between priests about the one hunting me. They said he could, and that he was looking for a woman whose mind was shielded. The child wasn’t lying.”

Mirar felt his anger waver. If the gods could give the skill to the White, why not to a priest hunting a sorceress? He sighed. That did not make what she had done any less infuriating.

“So you became young and beautiful. A fine way to avoid drawing attention to yourself.”

She looked up at him and he saw her pupils enlarge with anger. “Are you suggesting I did it out of vanity? Or do you think I’m greedy, that I could not get enough of fine dresses and gold?”

He met and held her eyes. “No,” he said. “I think you could have avoided that life if you’d truly wanted to. Did you even try anything else?”

She did not answer. Her expression told him she hadn’t.

“No,” he said. “It is as if you are drawn to it, though you know it is harmful. I worry about you, Emerahl. I worry that you nurse some unhealthy need to hurt yourself. As if... as if you are punishing yourself out of... out of self-loathing, perhaps.”

Her eyes narrowed. “How dare you. You tell me it’s harmful and disapprove of me resorting to it again, but you have never hesitated to buy a whore’s services. I heard you once boast that you were such a regular customer at a particular whorehouse in Aime that they let you have every third night free.”

Mirar straightened. “I am not like their regular customers,” he told her. “I am... considerate.”

“And that makes it different?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Other men are not so considerate. They can be brutal.”

“And I can defend myself.”

“I know, but...”

“But what?”

He spread his hands. “You’re my friend. I don’t want you to be unhappy.”

“I don’t find it as miserable an existence as you think I do,” she told him. “It’s not the most enjoyable profession a woman can take - though some women do find it suits them well - but it’s also not the worst. Would you rather I’d sat in the gutter, begging, or worked in some sewer or dump all day for a scrap of bread?”

“Yes,” he said, shrugging.

She leaned forward. “I wonder what Leiard thinks.” She looked into his eyes searchingly. “What do you think, Leiard?”

He had no time to protest. By addressing Leiard, she freed the other mind. Mirar found he had no control of his body; he could only observe.

“I think Mirar is a hypocrite,” Leiard said calmly.

Emerahl smiled with satisfaction. “Really?”

“Yes. He has contradicted himself many times. He told me months ago that he did not want to exist, but now it appears he does.”

She stared at him. “He did?”

“Yes. You believe that he is the real person, and I am not. So now he does too.”

Her gaze wavered. “I’m prepared to accept that the opposite may be true, Leiard, but you must prove it.”

“And if I can’t? Would you sacrifice me in order to keep your friend?”

It was a long time before she replied. “Would you like it better that way?”

Leiard looked down at the floor. “I am of two minds.” He smiled briefly at the unintended joke. “It might benefit others if I no longer existed, but I find I do not like the former leader of my own people. I am not sure if it would be wise to inflict the world with his existence again.”

Her eyebrows rose, then she surprised both Mirar and Leiard by bursting into laughter.

“Looks like I’m not the only person here who hates themself! Are you casting your own shadows on me, Mirar?”

Mirar gasped with relief as control returned. Emerahl gave him an odd look.

“You’re back?”

“Indeed.”

“Saying your names does it. Addressing one or the other. Interesting.” She looked up. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

He shrugged. “You didn’t address Leiard often. That left me in control most of the time.”

“How am I supposed to help you if you aren’t telling me everything?”

“I prefer being in control.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Enough to destroy another person’s mind?”

He did not answer. He had given her enough reasons to distrust him already tonight. She would not believe his answer, and he was not sure he’d believe it either.

“I’m going back to sleep,” she announced. “And I don’t want to be interrupted.”

Lying down, she rolled over. Her back seemed to admonish him.

“Emerahl.”

She did not reply.

“Priests can’t read minds. They can communicate via their rings, but no more. You may have encountered an unusually Gifted priest, or the gods may have given him the skill, but once you were away from him you had no reason to—”

“Go to sleep, Mirar.”

He shrugged, lay down and hoped she’d have forgiven him by the morning.

7

As the platten slowed again, Danjin let out a long sigh.

“To think that I used to enjoy the Summer Festival,” he muttered. “How do the priests and priestesses endure this?”

Auraya chuckled. “We allow four times as much time to get anywhere as we normally do. Haven’t you encountered festival crowds before?”

“On foot,” he said. “Revellers don’t block the streets where I live - or surround and stop every Temple platten when it passes.”

She smiled. “We can hardly complain about that when their intention is to make a donation.”

The clink of a coin in the platten’s donation box emphasized her point.

Danjin sighed again. “I’m not complaining about that. I just wish they’d leave their donation at the Temple like everyone else, instead of holding up Temple plattens.”

“Donate at the Temple like the wealthy and important?” she asked. “Poor drunken folk rubbing shoulders with rich drunk folk?”

His nose wrinkled. “I suppose we can’t have that.” He paused, then his eyes brightened. “There should be a donation day for wealthy donators and another for the rest.”

She shook her head. “If there was, there would be such a large crowd in the Temple you’d never be able to leave the grounds. When people started approaching plattens years ago it was because the Temple was too crowded. It would be worse now.” She shrugged. “Drunken revellers have always been gripped by a spontaneous need to give us money or gifts. It’s hard to discourage them and trying usually means a longer delay. That’s why we had the donation boxes attached to our platten. It is the best solution.”

“But what would we do if we had to get somewhere urgently?”

“I’d lower the cover and ask them to clear the road.”

“Would they? Half of them are drunk and delirious.”

She laughed. “Yes, they are. It is a celebration, after all.” Tugging aside the flap, she peered outside. “It’s so heartening to see so many happy people. It reassures you that not everyone died in the war, and that people can be cheerful again.”

Danjin subsided into his seat. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. I hadn’t thought of it like that. I guess I am too impatient.”

Abruptly the platten began moving faster. It turned and the sound of coins entering the boxes ceased. Danjin lifted the platten flap on his side of the vehicle.

“At last,” he muttered. “We’ve reached civilization.”

On either side were mansions of the rich. The road to the Temple was the one thoroughfare the city guard kept clear of revellers. Instead it was filled by a long line of highly decorated platten. The wealthy disdained donation boxes, preferring instead to make a great show of their personal visits to the Temple.

“There’s the Timer family,” Danjin said, concern in his voice. “Look at the size of those trunks! They can’t afford to be giving so much away!”

Auraya peered over his shoulder. Extending her senses she read the minds of the old couple in the Tither platten.

“The first trunk is full of pottery, the second of blankets and the third is oil,” she told him. “Fa-Tither carries a modest amount of gold.”

“Ah.” Danjin sighed in relief. “It is all show then. I hope the gods do not mind.”

Auraya laughed. “Of course not! They have never demanded or expected money from their followers. People came up with the idea themselves. We’ve told people that sacrificing income to the gods doesn’t guarantee a place at their side after death, but they still do it.”

“Just in case.” Danjin chuckled. “The Temple would find it difficult if they didn’t, though. How else would they feed, clothe and house priests and priestesses - and undertake charitable projects?”

“We’d work something else out.” Auraya shrugged. “There are other benefits to the tradition, too. One of the farmers in my village gives most of his earnings to the local Temple in summer, then asks for most of it back when he needs it in winter. He says he’d spend it too fast otherwise, and that putting it in the care of the priest is his best protection against robbery.”

“Because priests are likely to be more Gifted than anyone else,” Danjin said.

He looked more relaxed now, Auraya noted. They had come from the hospice, in one of the poorer districts of the city. As a member of the city’s upper class, he had good reason to be uneasy there. If he had been alone, dressed as he was, he would probably have been robbed.

At this time of year he had even more reason to be cautious. The Summer Festival was also referred to as the Festival of the Thieves. Robbers, muggers and pickpockets took advantage of worshippers when they could, either waylaying them on their way to make a donation or breaking into homes in search of the savings stored in preparation for the festival.

The previous year a cunning young thief had made himself a fortune by climbing in under the Temple plattens, drilling a hole into the bottom of the donation boxes, and pocketing the coins. His first successes has inflated his confidence and on the last day of the festival, after stories of the thefts had circulated, he had been caught and beaten to death by enraged worshippers.

“We can’t be far away now,” Danjin muttered, peering out of the platten cover again.

Auraya closed her eyes and searched the thoughts of those around them. From the driver’s mind she read that they were nearing the Temple entrance, then she caught a snatch of anger from a vehicle in front. Looking closer, she learned that the occupant was Terena Spicer, matriarch of one of the most wealthy and powerful families of the city. Auraya was amused and a little disturbed to find the woman’s anger was directed at herself.

Intrigued, she watched as the woman’s thoughts churned. She barely noticed when Danjin informed her that they had passed through the arch and entered the Temple. Only when the platten stopped did she break her concentration. They climbed out. The paving before the Tower was crowded with plattens. Terena Spicer hadn’t emerged from her vehicle yet. Indicating that Danjin should follow, Auraya strode into the Tower.

The enormous hall inside was full of priests, priestesses and the usual crowd of wealthy families talking and gossiping after having deposited their donations. As always, the entrance of a White sent a thrill of excitement through the crowd. Auraya kept her pace swift and her eyes on the room where the donations were presented. Despite this, a man stepped forward, intending to intercept her. To her relief, a priestess moved into his path to prevent him.

Danjin followed, full of unspoken questions. She considered stopping to explain, but there was too little time. As she neared her destination, she briefly looked into the minds of those within the donation room. A family had just made their contribution and were about to leave. She opened the door and stepped inside.

Her arrival caused the room to fall silent in surprise. A high priest and four lesser priests sat before a long, sturdy table. The family stood just within the door. Auraya smiled and nodded to all.

“Please continue.”

“Fa Glazer was just leaving, Auraya of the White,” the high priest said mildly, making the sign of the circle. “Having made a most generous donation.”

“Indeed, I am,” the older man of the family said with dignity. He made the formal sign of the circle with both hands, then ushered his family out. As the door closed, the priests turned to regard Auraya.

“I’m here to observe a visitor,” she told them, moving to stand to one side.

The high priest nodded. Two of the lesser priests rose and, lifting the chests left by the family with magic, sent them floating through a door on the other side of the room. Auraya turned to Danjin. He could not stay here. The donations were meant to remain a secret.

“You had better wait in there,” she told him, nodding at the door the trunks had been taken through. “I want you to listen, if you can.”

He nodded and strode across the room to the door. It closed firmly after him. From his thoughts, she saw that he had pressed his ear to the crack of the door.

Three more visitors came and left before Terena Spicer entered. The woman’s face was tight with disapproval. She strode forward and dropped a single small chest on the table with a thump, then she lifted her chin, swept her eyes imperiously over the priests and opened her mouth to begin the speech she had prepared.

As her gaze shifted to Auraya her haughty expression melted into one of horror.

Auraya smiled and nodded politely. The woman swallowed, looked away, then took a step backward from the table. The high priest leaned forward and opened the chest. His expression did not change, but the eyebrows of the other priests rose. One gold coin lay within.

Terena’s mind was in turmoil. Clearly she could not give the speech she had planned now. Auraya’s presence had reminded her that by protesting against a White’s work she might be protesting against the gods’ will. A small struggle followed, and the reason to stay silent won a narrow victory over her reason to speak out.

Auraya watched as the priests uttered their usual thanks. Terena murmured replies. The ritual over, she turned to leave.

Not so fast, Auraya thought.

“Ma Spicer,” she said, keeping her voice gentle and concerned. “I could not help but sense your agitation on your arrival. I also sense that you intended to discuss the cause of your agitation with the priests here. Please do not hesitate to express your concern. I would not like you to harbor ill feeling toward us.”

Terena flushed and reluctantly turned back. Her gaze flickered from priest to priest, then to Auraya. As the woman gathered her courage and anger, Auraya felt a wry admiration for her.

“I did intend to speak my mind,” she said. “I have reduced my donation this year in protest at this Dreamweaver place you are building. Our sons and daughters should not be associating with those... those filthy heathens.”

As the priests turned to regard Auraya expectantly, she laughed inwardly at their eagerness. This must be the most exciting event that had happened to them in days.

She walked forward until she was a few steps from the woman. “Leave us,” she said to the priests. They rose and filed into the donation store room, unified in their disappointment. Once they were gone, Terena allowed her apprehension to show. She would not meet Auraya’s gaze. Her hands were shaking.

“I understand your concern, Terena Spicer,” Auraya said soothingly. “For a long time we have encouraged Circlians to avoid Dreamweavers. In the past this was necessary in order to reduce their influence. Now there are few who would choose that life, and Dreamweavers pose no danger to Circlians true to the gods.

“Those that do choose that life are often disillusioned or rebellious youth. Now, if these people are at all tempted by the life of a Dreamweaver, they will come to the hospice to see them. When they do they will see priests and priestesses as well. They will see that our healers are as skilled and powerful, if not more so, than Dreamweavers. If they are given a chance to compare, they will realize that one life leads to the salvation of their soul and the other does not.”

The woman was staring up at Auraya now. She found herself approving, though reluctantly, of what Auraya was suggesting.

“What of those who still want the Dreamweaver life?”

“After seeing all that?” Auraya shook her head sadly.

“Then they would have sought and found it anyway. This way we can continue to seek their return. We will gently but persistently call them back, giving them no reason to hate and resist us. If they sought the Pentadrian way of life, however...” She let the sentence hang. Some people needed to hate others. Better they directed their animosity at the Pentadrians than at the Dreamweavers.

Ma Spicer lowered her eyes, then nodded. “That is wise.”

Auraya lifted a finger to her lips. “As is keeping this to yourself, Ma Spicer.”

The woman nodded. “I understand. Thank you for... easing my concerns. I hope... I hope I have not offended you.”

“Not at all.” Auraya smiled. “Perhaps you will be able to enjoy the party outside now.”

The corner of Terena’s mouth twitched into a half smile. “I think I will. Thank you, Auraya of the White.”

She made the formal sign of the circle, then walked to the door, her shoulders stiff with pride again. Auraya of the White had confided in Terena Spicer. But then, why wouldn’t she?

Auraya chuckled as the door closed behind the woman. She didn’t believe for a moment that Terena Spicer would be able to resist relating what she had just heard to a few close and trusted friends. In a few days the story would be all over the city.

She moved to the side door and tapped on it. Danjin stepped out, his expression neutral. From his mind she confirmed he had heard most of what had been said.

The priests followed, a little miffed that Danjin had been allowed to eavesdrop, but trusting that Auraya had her reasons for asking him to. Auraya thanked them, then left the room.

“Are you sure you want people to know that?” Danjin murmured as they skirted the crowd and made their way toward the circular wall at the center of the hall.

“Ordinary Circlians won’t accept the hospice unless they feel there is an advantage in it for us,” she replied quietly.

“Plain old peace and tolerance isn’t reason enough. Neither is the assumption that whatever I do is approved of by the gods.”

“What if they hear of it?”

“The Dreamweavers?” Auraya smiled grimly. “They have already accepted my proposal. They voted on it, and won’t go to the trouble of organizing another vote over a mere rumor. I’m hoping they’re smart enough to realize that my lie about us being as skilled at healing means that we can’t possibly have these intentions. If our aim was to prove ourselves better rather than equal to them, we would not set up this hospice.”

“Unless your healers become as skilled as they. Do you really think they won’t see that danger and guess at your true plan.”

Auraya grimaced. “They will feel safe so long as we do not seek to learn their mind skills. By the time we do, in years to come, they will have become secure in the success of the venture and the danger will be long forgotten.”

Danjin’s eyebrows rose. “I hope you’re right.”

“So do I.”

They reached the wall at the center of the hall. It encompassed a raised floor with a hole in the center through which large chains hung. To one side a staircase spiralled upward, but Auraya ignored it. She nodded at the priest standing at the bottom of the stairs. He made the sign of the circle.

Soon the chains began to move. A large disc of metal descended through the stairwell. As it passed the level of the ceiling the rest of a large iron cage slowly came into sight. The heavy chain it was suspended from extended up into the heights of the Tower. As the cage stopped the priest stepped forward and opened the door for her and Danjin to enter.

“Have you had any dreams about the hospice?” Auraya asked Danjin as the cage began to rise.

“Dreams? Do you... do you think they would try to find out your intentions from my dreams?” He looked appalled. “That would be breaking a law!”

“I know. So have you dreamed of this?”

Danjin shook his head.

“I have to consider the possibility that they might try. After all, I would risk it if I were in their position,” she said. “I’ve spoken to Juran about it. I suggested that when we make a link ring to replace the ones the Pentadrians took, we include a shield for the wearer’s thoughts in its properties. A shield that doesn’t block my mind, of course, or there’d be no point in making the ring at all.”

“So you intend for me to wear this ring?” He was unable to hide his discomfort.

Auraya resisted a smile. Since returning from the war, Danjin had enjoyed a renewed intimacy with his wife. He wasn’t aware how often his thoughts drifted into reverie, and she didn’t have the heart to point out that a link ring wouldn’t reveal any more than she’d already read from his mind.

“Yes, the ring is for you,” Auraya replied. “Though I may need you to pass it to others from time to time.” The cage slowed to a stop. She opened the door and they stepped out. “Don’t worry, Danjin.” She winked at him. “I’ll respect your privacy.”

He flushed and hastily looked away. Auraya smiled and crossed to the door of her rooms.

Emerahl concentrated on Mirar’s mind. At first she detected nothing, then a feeling of impatience and uncertainty touched her senses.

“I can sense you,” she said. “You let your shield fall out of boredom.”

He let out a sigh and rolled his eyes. “How long are we going to do this for? I’m getting hungry.”

“The shield can’t be temporary. You have to get to the point where it is there all the time, where you can hold it unconsciously. Now try again.”

He groaned. “Can’t we eat first?”

“No. Not until I can’t detect your emotions at all. Do it again.”

She sensed frustration, then stubbornness, then something strange happened. For a moment his emotions faded to nothing, then she sensed puzzlement. He shifted position from half-lying on the bed to sitting straight.

Mirar never sits so... so symmetrically, she thought. He always lounges about. Looking into his eyes she saw wariness and resignation.

“Leiard? Is that you?”

“It is I,” he replied. Even the way he spoke was even and considered.

“How?”

His shoulders lifted. “I believe he wanted to not be present.”

“He ran away?” She felt mirth well up inside her and let out a laugh. “Mirar fled from my lessons. Ha! What a coward!”

The corners of Leiard’s lips lifted slightly, the closest he came to a smile. She sobered and considered him thoughtfully.

“I do not wish you to think I do not enjoy your company, Leiard, but I can’t have Mirar playing truant like this every time he finds my lessons difficult. We are going to have to make sure he doesn’t do this again.”

Leiard’s eyebrows rose. “How do you expect to persuade him otherwise?”

“By getting you to tell me about him. Tell me things he would not like me to hear. What terrible deeds has he been up to?”

As Leiard’s expression darkened she felt a thrill of interest. Obviously there was much to tell.

“To do so would be to confess to my own... folly.”

She blinked in surprise. “You? Folly? You do not seem the type to indulge in foolishness.”

“Ah, but I have, and he will enjoy hearing me relate it, which will hardly achieve your goal.”

She leaned forward, intrigued. “We can get to that later.” She remembered the conversation she had overheard just before they had arrived at the cave. “Is this about a woman?”

Leiard started and frowned at her.

“He has told you.”

“No. I’m a woman, remember. We sense these things. There’s nothing like love to lead a man into folly. Perhaps...” She let her flippant tone rest. “Perhaps a woman’s ear might be more sympathetic to your tale. I can’t imagine Mirar would make a good listener.”

Leiard let out a quiet snort. “He did not approve at all.”

Mirar not approve of a woman? Interesting. “What would this woman’s name be, then?”

The Dreamweaver looked up at her. His tortured expression was one she had never seen Mirar wear, and it made him look like a stranger. He considered her for a long time before he spoke again.

“You must swear to never allow another to know of it.”

“I swear,” she replied solemnly.

He looked down at his hands. She felt herself growing ever more tense as she waited for him to speak.

Tell me! she thought.

“The woman I loved... that I love...” he said, his voice barely louder than a whisper “... is Auraya of the White.”

Auraya of the White! Emerahl stared at him. She felt a rush of cold, as if someone had just poured icy water over her head. The shock rendered her incapable of thinking for a moment. One of the Gods’ Chosen! No wonder Mirar did not approve!

Now that the name had been admitted to, a dam against words within Leiard broke. The whole story flooded out: how he had been Auraya’s friend and teacher when she was a child; how he had travelled to Jarime and been enchanted by the woman she had become; how she had made him Dreamweaver Adviser to the White, and the night of “folly” before she left for Si. He told of his resignation in order to preserve their secret; the growing presence of Mirar in his mind, the danger of terrible consequences should the affair be discovered, yet being unable to stop reaching out to her in dreams. He spoke guiltily of the resumption of their affair when Auraya joined the army, then of Juran’s discovery of it, of fleeing and Mirar’s suggestion he take over their body. Then discovering Mirar had hidden in a brothel camp. Finally he told of the dream link which had revealed that Auraya had seen him with a prostitute and now believed he had betrayed her.

When he had finished, he lapsed into a glum silence.

“I see,” Emerahl said, for the sake of saying something. She needed time to consider this incredible story. “That is quite a tale.”

“Mirar was right,” he stated firmly. “I endangered my people.”

Emerahl spread her hands. “You were in love.”

“That is no excuse.”

“It is excuse enough. What I don’t understand is... Auraya must have seen Mirar in your mind. Surely this alarmed her.”

“She knew the link memories in my mind had manifested into a personality I would occasionally converse with. She did not believe Mirar truly existed. She never observed him taking control.”

“I can understand her wanting to believe that. Love makes us tolerate things we might not normally stand for. Juran, surely, would not have accepted it.”

Leiard shrugged. “He did. Perhaps only because I was useful to him and Mirar did not show himself capable of taking control until later.”

He obviously didn’t recognize Mirar’s body, Emerahl thought. Has Juran’s memory faded that much over the last hundred years? Had Mirar looked so different as to be unrecognizable? She shuddered as she realized how close Mirar had been to discovery. The gods must have looked into his mind, perhaps several times, yet they didn’t recognize him. Unless... unless the gods did, but are unconcerned because they know Leiard is the true owner of his body.

Even so, they would not have approved of this affair between their chosen one and any Dreamweaver. Why did they allow it? Maybe they feared to lose Auraya’s trust and loyalty. Maybe they expected Leiard to confirm their low opinion of Dreamweavers. Auraya may now hate them because of Leiard’s “betrayal.”

She frowned as something else occurred to her. “You say she discovered you with a prostitute, but Mirar was in control. Surely if she hadn’t observed him in control before, she should not have recognized you. Or rather, she should have realized it was him in control - not you.”

He frowned. “I had not considered that. It is... puzzling.”

“Yes. You must be alike enough for her to recognize both of you as the same person,” Emerahl said slowly. “She might have noticed differences given the chance, but at that moment she would have been so shocked by what you had done. She may have decided she didn’t know you as well as she thought.”

“I would not have done what he did,” Leiard stated, a little defensively.

Emerahl regarded him thoughtfully. “No. You are quite unlike Mirar in that regard.”

“Why do you like him when he is so despicable?”

She laughed. “Because he is. He’s a rogue, there’s no denying it. While his morals may be a little questionable, he is a good man.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “You know that, I think.”

He looked away, frowning. “I know he was once more... restrained when it came to women. I think time made him change. He seeks physical sensation in order to assure himself he is still alive. That he is still a physical being. Not a god.”

She stared at him in surprise, disturbed by what he was suggesting. The gods had accused Mirar of pretending to be a god. Now Leiard believed Mirar behaved as he did to reassure himself he wasn’t a god.

“I believe you when you say joining the brothel was necessity,” he added. “You believed the priests were more dangerous than they were. I also wonder if you unknowingly seek the same kind of assurance that Mirar seeks. You seek a reminder that you are a physical being, not a god. Whoring—”

“Mirar,” she commanded. “Break’s over. Come back to me.”

He stiffened, then relaxed. As his gaze focused on her again his eyebrows lowered and he smiled at her slyly.

“I’m a rogue, eh?”

To her surprise, she felt her pulse quicken. No, that’s no great surprise. Mirar has always been able to stir my blood. It seems he still can, even after all this time. Or perhaps because so much time has passed.

She could still sense his emotions, however, and could see he was just being playful. Trying to delay her from recalling her real purpose - mind-shielding lessons. She schooled her expression.

“Enough chit-chat,” she said. “I don’t intend to stay in this cave forever, so unless you want to end up stuck here by yourself, eating whatever insects find their way in, you had better get back to work.”

His shoulders sagged. “Oh, all right then.”

8

The staircase went on forever. Imi’s legs ached, but she set her eyes on her father’s back and pushed herself on, clenching her teeth to stop herself complaining.

He warned me, she thought. He said it took hours to climb up to the lookout. Then you have to come all the way down again. Next time I won’t have to come back. Next time I’ll swim away and come back via the Mouth.

The tunnel echoed with the heavy breathing of the adults. Teiti looked as if she was in pain. The guards, in contrast, appeared to be enjoying themselves. Those that regularly accompanied the king to the lookout were used to the exercise. Those who watched over Imi were enjoying a rare opportunity to visit a place that only a few were allowed to see.

Teiti began to gasp in the way she had each time she had been about to ask for a rest. Imi felt both annoyance and relief. She did not want to stop, she wanted the staircase to end.

“Not long now,” her father tossed over his shoulder.

Her aunt paused, then shrugged and continued on. Imi felt her heart lift with expectation. The next few minutes seemed longer than the hours behind them. Finally her father slowed to a stop. She peered around him to see they had reached a blank wall.

There was no door. Confused, she looked at the others. They were gazing up at the small trapdoor set into the roof.

Her father moved to one side, where an alcove like the ones they had passed on the way up held several pottery bottles of water. He passed them around. Imi splashed water over her skin gratefully, then drank. The water was stale but welcome after the long climb.

She looked up at the trapdoor, noting the rusty iron brackets in the back of the door. A heavy length of wood was propped against a wall nearby. She guessed this would be slipped into the brackets to stop the door opening if raiders found the tunnel.

At a signal from the king a guard reached up and knocked on the trapdoor. She noted the pattern - two quick knocks, three spaced ones, two more rapid ones. The trapdoor lifted. Two armored men peered down at them. Beyond them was the dazzling blue of the sky.

One of the watchers moved away, then returned carrying a ladder. He lowered it into the tunnel. The king sent two guards up first, then climbed it himself. As he stepped off it he peered down at Imi, smiled and beckoned.

She set a foot on the first rung and began to climb. Her sore feet protested after the long walk, but she gritted her teeth against the pain. As she reached the top her father grabbed her waist and hauled her out. She gave a laugh of surprise and pleasure.

Her father made a rueful sound. “You’re getting a bit heavy for that,” he said, rubbing his back. Straightening, he sighed and looked into the distance.

Imi examined her surroundings. She was standing in a dirt-filled space between several huge boulders. They were too high for her to see over. She jumped on the spot, and managed to catch glimpses of sea and horizon.

“Perhaps if I lift her, your majesty?” one of the king’s more robust guards offered.

The king nodded. “Yes. Only so long as you can manage.”

The guard smiled at Imi. “Turn around, Princess.”

She did as he asked and felt his large hands grip her waist. He lifted her up onto one broad shoulder and held her there.

Now she had a better view than anyone else. She could see the edge of the sea all around, she could see the islands of Borra forming a huge ring in the blue water, and she could see the steep rock slope of the island she was standing on stretching down toward a fringe of forest and the white of the beach.

“Can you get to here from the beach?” she asked.

Her father laughed. “Yes, but it would not be easy. The ground is steep and the stony surface is slippery. This peak is sheer smooth rock for a hundred paces on either side. You need ropes and a wall anchor to get up here.”

Imi felt her stomach sink with disappointment. Her plan to bribe and cajole her way up here at night to “admire the stars” then to slip away and run to the beach wasn’t going to work. Yet she was also relieved. It had been a long climb and even if the outside had been as she’d imagined - a gentle slope down to the beach - she’d have been too tired to run.

I’ll just have to come up with another plan, she decided.

They lingered there for half an hour, while her father pointed out landmarks. At the mention of raiders, Imi stared hard at the horizon. She listened to the watchers describe what a ship looked like, noting the details in case she should come across one on her way to the sea bells.

After a while her skin began to feel unpleasantly dry. In the corner of her eye she saw Teiti surreptitiously nudge her father and give him a nod. He announced it was time to leave.

Once they had all descended into the tunnel and wet their skin again, the guard that had lifted her suggested she might like to ride on his back. She looked at her father eagerly. He smiled.

“Go on. Just watch you don’t knock your head on the ceiling.”

She climbed on the guard’s back and rested her head on his shoulder, pretending to be sleepy. Then, as her father, aunt and the guard began to descend the staircase, she started to put together another plan to escape her protectors, and the city.

The curves of the paths within the Temple gardens were gentle and flawless. Whenever Auraya viewed them from her room in the Tower she found herself a little repelled by the overtly planned and ordered design of the gardens. In comparison to the natural wildness of the forest next to the village she had grown up in, or the magnificent disorder of Si’s wild territory, the interlocking circles and carefully spaced plants seemed ridiculous.

From the ground, however, there was something reassuring about the tamed regularity of the gardens. There was no danger of being stalked by leramers or vorns, or stumbling upon sleepvine. Nothing was left around to rot, so the air was fragrant with flowers and fruit. The curves of the paths created one attractive vista after another, and led a walker sensibly to where they needed to go without the temptation of cutting across the carefully trimmed grass.

Today Auraya was not taking a walk for pleasure, however. She and Juran were bound for the Sacred Grove.

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 airborne 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 Irnenja. 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.”

“You have intelligence. I like the way you think. You can keep to protocol, and speak other languages. You’ll do well. There is one obstacle, however. You must appear to earn the position. Few here witnessed your part in the army’s escape from the mines, or know how much they owe you. Those who remained here during the war do not feel your act justifies changing a rule that has been accepted for so long that it is almost a law.”

Though her heart was racing and her insides felt as if they had dropped somewhere below her feet, Reivan managed to nod. “Servants must be Skilled.”

“Don’t be disheartened. More here are willing to give you a chance than not, and not just because I wish it to be so. They will not protest if I take you to rituals and seek your advice, just as I would a Companion, but to make it official this soon...” She shook her head. “It could be many months before I can do so. I know you are more than able to convince them you are worthy, but do you feel up to the challenge?”

Reivan nodded slowly. “If I am to serve the gods well, then I had better put myself in a position where my abilities are useful.”

Imenja smiled. “Good answer. Ah. Just in time, too. Here’s Shar.”

As the Fifth Voice stepped onto the balcony, Reivan felt her heart skip a beat. He may have been the least powerful Voice, but he was the most beautiful. His skin was unusually pale, and long, sun-bleached blond hair spilled down his back. His emerald eyes moved from Imenja to her.

“Ladies,” he said, bowing.

“Do you mind if Reivan remains here to advise me?” Imenja asked him.

“Not at all.” He smiled and bowed politely. She felt her face warm.

“Thank you, holy one,” she replied, her voice coming out quieter than she had intended.

“Are we the last to arrive?” a new female voice asked.

They all turned as the other two Voices entered the balcony. Genza was as dark and sharp-featured as the birds she bred. Vervel, in contrast, was stocky and looked to be twenty years her senior. Both had been Servant-warriors during their mortal years, despite having powerful Skills.

“I’m afraid you are,” Shar told them.

Genza looked at Reivan and nodded. “Welcome to the Sanctuary, Reivan Reedcutter.”

Reivan felt her face grow even warmer. She murmured thanks. Two male Servants entered the room. She recognized Genza’s and Vervel’s Companions. The pair nodded to her respectfully, and she returned the gesture.

As the five new arrivals settled into woven reed chairs, Reivan felt her confidence wither. In the company of all the Voices and their powerful Companions, she felt unimportant and a little pathetic. She resolved to say as little as possible, and concentrate on listening. As if obliging her, the Voices began discussing the Dedicated Servants eligible to become First Voice.

To her surprise, they debated the merits and failings of each with an enthusiasm that was almost frightening. No aspect of any candidate’s nature was spared their uncompromising scrutiny. She quickly realized why this was important to them. Whoever was chosen would be their leader.

They might be working with that person for centuries, or even millennia.

I wonder why? Imenja can I change to First, she thought suddenly. She seems a good enough leader to me.

After some time two domestics arrived with a platter of dried fruits, nuts and other delicacies, and a jug of water. The conversation turned to minor matters. Reivan shivered as a cool breeze touched her skin. Looking over the balcony rail, she saw that the sun was near setting.

“There have been protests against holding the Rite of the Sun during a month of mourning,” Vervel said quietly, his expression neutral.

Imenja nodded. “I was expecting there to be. We can’t ask couples to wait another year for the next fertility ceremony. What is more healing to the heart than bringing new life into the world?”

The others nodded or shrugged. Imenja looked at each of them, then smiled.

“I think we have discussed enough for today. Shall we meet here again tomorrow, if the weather is pleasant?”

The other three Voices nodded.

Imenja rose and smoothed her robes. “I’ll see you all at dinner.” She looked down at Reivan. “Come with me, Reivan. We have much to discuss.”

As she stepped away, Reivan rose and followed. Imenja asked Reivan a few questions about her lessons as they walked. After a few minutes they arrived at the threshold of a large room. Reivan looked around, noting the simple but luxurious furnishings.

“These are my rooms,” Imenja said. “When you are my Companion you will be given your own private suite of rooms not far from here.”

Reivan nodded, and thought of the small, dark room she’d been given after becoming a Servant-novice. “I’ll look forward to that.”

The Second Voice chuckled. “Yes. In the meantime, it may be useful for you to know how ordinary priests and priestesses live.”

And now I know how the Voices live, Reivan thought as she looked around the room again. What is this room telling me about them? That they are powerful and wealthy, but in a dignified rather than excessive manner. I guess they need to impress any rulers that come here, and reassure their own people that they are in control. She looked at Imenja, remembering her previous unanswered question.

“So why don’t you become the First Voice?”

Imenja laughed. “Me?” She shook her head. “There are many reasons, but the foremost is strength. We need someone to replace Kuar who is as magically powerful, or more powerful than Kaur. That would make the new Voice more powerful than me, and it wouldn’t do to have a less powerful Voice ruling over the rest, would it?”

Reivan shook her head. “I guess not.”

“I don’t fancy the position either,” Imenja admitted. “I prefer to be less direct in my methods.” She moved to a small gong. As she struck it a pleasant ring filled the room. “Now, I need to deal with a few matters I used to leave to Thar. Stay and listen, for you will be taking on these tasks soon.”

Following the Second Voice to a set of reed chairs, Reivan resolved to learn as much as she could.

I may not have magic, but that’s not going to stop me from being a good Companion when the time comes, she told herself.

Mirar closed his eyes and slowed his breathing, letting his consciousness sink until it hovered between wakefulness and sleep. In this state it was easy to become distracted, to wander into dreams. He kept a part of his mind set on his purpose. It was like the game he had played as a child, where one had to stay in contact with a tree or a rock with one hand while trying to “kill” the other children by touching them. They’d circle around him, darting in and leaping away. He’d stretch out, just one finger touching the tree...

The tower dream, he reminded himself. I must see this dream Emerahl insists is mine.

He called out to her, and felt her stir from sleep into dream.

:Mirar?

:I am here. Show me the dream.

:Ah. Yes. The tower dream. How does it begin ...?

The White Tower appeared. It loomed over her/him, as did a sense of impending danger.

:Have you been to Jarime in the last hundred years? he asked, gently and quietly so as to avoid disturbing her recollection. Have you seen the White Tower?

:No.

That was interesting. For her to have dreamed so accurately of something she’d never seen... but then she did believe this was not her own dream.

The dream was not as accurate as it first appeared. Clouds were cut apart as they passed the top of the tower; it was higher than it truly was. He felt dream fear wash over him. The urge to flee, but also the paralysis of fascination. The dreamer wanted to watch. Wanted to see, though it was dangerous. If he stayed too long they would see the dreamer. Discover who he was.

‘They’? Who were ‘they’?

The tower seemed to flex. Cracks appeared. It was too late to run away, but still he tried. Looking back, he saw huge stone bricks falling toward him.

Why didn’t I run sooner? Why aren’t I running sideways, out of the way of the long length of the falling tower?

The world crashed around him. The noise was deafening. He felt his body covered. Crushed. Bones cracking. Flesh squashing, bursting. Chest collapsing under an enormous weight. Lungs burning as he slowly began to suffocate. No breath to cry out. Not even to give voice to the pain. He fought a numbness that was encroaching upon his mind. He tried to reach for magic, but there was none. The space around him was depleted. Despite that knowledge, he reached further, felt a trickle of it, drew it in. Used it to protect and sustain his head, his mind, his thoughts.

It isn’t enough.

Not enough magic to repair his body. Not even enough to lift the rubble of the House piled atop him. Definitely not enough to face Juran again, which he would have to do if he managed to free himself.

I could just let it go. Let myself die. Juran is right about one thing. A new age is beginning. Perhaps there is no place for me in it, as he claims.

But what of the Dreamweavers?

I am no use to them now. All I have done by resisting the gods’ plans is make Dreamweavers an enemy of the people rather than a part of this new society. Nothing lasts forever. Perhaps it is time for them to end, too. I can’t do anything for them now. If I can’t save myself, how can I save them?

He felt the little magic he had drawn dwindling, yet he reached out for more, stretching further than he had ever stretched before. If he could draw enough to sustain himself, he might survive. It was just a matter of being efficient. No need to realign bones or repair flesh. Just keep basic processes working. There was no food or water here under the rubble. He must slow his body down until it was barely alive. No need to think, just sustain the substance of his mind enough that it continued drawing magic and directing it to its purpose.

If he did not think, the gods would not see him. Would not know what he was doing. Would not know if he survived.

But they would know, once he recovered. They had only to read his mind.

Let them not see me. Let them see another. One who will never be a threat to them. I will become another until... well, for as long as I’m able... or until I die.

Slowly he let himself sink into darkness.

:Mirar!

The darkness veered away like a frightened reyner. Free from the dream, he remembered where he was and what he was doing, and the implications of the dream swamped him.

:Emerahl. You were right. I remember.

:I saw it, she replied. You are the true owner of your body. The White Tower was a symbol representing Juran striking you. It was confused with the Dreamweaver House that you were buried under. You, Mirar.

He felt awe and wonder at what he had done.

:It worked. I survived. I created Leiard in order to keep the gods from seeing me, and it worked. I walked in their Temple, lay with their priestess and they didn’t know me.

:You lost your identity, she replied, appalled. You may as well have been dead.

:But now I have regained it.

:Fortunate for you that you found a safe place to do so - and that I survived to teach you how to hide your thoughts.

:Yes, and to help me remember. Thank you, Emerahl.

:I doubt Leiard will thank me.

:Leiard? He is not a real person.

:He has become one.

:Yes, Mirar agreed reluctantly. He has had a hundred years to do so. At least he knows the truth. No wonder we were always at odds with each other. I made him opposite to me in many ways in order to strengthen my disguise.

:I wonder... Does he still exist? Should we wake up so I can try to call him forth?

:No, Mirar replied. Not yet. I have much to think about. I feel other memories coming.

:Tomorrow, then.

:Yes. Tomorrow. Mirar pushed away a rising feeling of trepidation. What would he do if Leiard was still there in his mind? What could he do?

:Good night, Emerahl sent sleepily.

:Good night, he replied.

Their dream link broke. Alone, Mirar let himself drift into dreams and memories. Not all of them pleasant, but most of them filled with truths he had not known for a century.

10

Emerahl rose early and went in search of food. As she dug for edible roots and plucked fruit and nuts from trees she considered the revelations of the night before. What Mirar had done was extraordinary. She wanted to know how he had survived in his broken body as much as she wanted to learn how he had created Leiard and buried his own sense of identity. Was Leiard still in his mind? Could he temporarily slip into a Leiard state again if he knew the gods were watching? That might come in handy.

He was in a meditative pose when she returned. It was so uncharacteristic for him she felt a sinking dismay, sure that Leiard had taken control. As she put down her bucket one of his eyes opened and his lips twitched into a sly smile.

“What’s for breakfast?”

That’s definitely Mirar, she thought, relieved.

“Rootcakes. Fruit and nuts,” she replied. “Again.”

Unimpressed, he closed his eye again, leaving her feeling dismissed. He was shielding his mind well, too. She could not even guess at his mood.

Her stomach rumbled. She peeled the roots, chopped them finely and boiled them until they were soft. Straining them, she mashed them into a paste and began to shape them into flat circles.

“I remembered much last night,” he said. “After you went to sleep.”

She straightened to regard him. His eyes opened. He looked like a stranger, his face tight with emotions she had never seen him wear. Once again she wondered if she was talking to Leiard.

“Like what?”

His gaze dropped to the floor, but his eyes were focused beyond it. On memories, she guessed. Bad memories from the look on his face.

“Confusion. After I was found in the rubble I woke as if from a sleep. I didn’t know who I was and nobody else did either. They didn’t recognize me and assumed I was one of the ordinary Dreamweavers who had been caught in the collapse of the House. My body was twisted and misshapen. I couldn’t walk. I couldn’t feed myself. I was so ugly they hid me away so I didn’t frighten women and young children.”

He spoke softly, with no anger, but with a quiet horror. She shivered, appalled that her old friend had suffered so. Appalled that the great Mirar had been reduced to a cripple with no memory.

“I healed so slowly,” he continued. “My hair fell out and grew back white. I couldn’t cut it, and by the time I was able to I couldn’t remember why I should want to. As soon as I was able to get my legs to move well enough to carry me, I fled Jarime. I was frightened of the city, but couldn’t remember why. So I hobbled from town to town, village to village, travelling further and further away. Begging, scavenging, treated with charity in one place and driven away from others. The way I existed was pathetic, and it went on for years and years and years.”

He sighed. “But still I grew stronger. My scars dwindled away. While some memories faded, others returned. I remembered that I was a Dreamweaver, but it was a long time before I dared to make myself a vest or offer my services. I stayed longer in each place, years instead of months. The longest I stayed was for more than a decade, and that was after...” He paused, then grimaced. “After I found a child with so much potential I could not help but stay and teach her.”

“Auraya,” Emerahl ventured.

He nodded. “She would have made a fine Dreamweaver.”

Emerahl felt a mild surprise. “You think so?”

“Yes. She is intelligent. Compassionate. Gifted. All the right characteristics.”

“Except for a certain preference for the gods.”

He smiled ruefully. “Yes. Except for that. Once again, they ruined my plans. Or Leiard’s, anyway.” He frowned. “The Tower in the dream is the White Tower. It didn’t exist then, but it was built where the Dreamweaver House stood. I think seeing that prompted my memories to return.”

Emerahl leaned forward. “So, is Leiard still there?”

“I don’t know.” Mirar looked up at her, his expression unreadable. “I guess it is time to find out.”

She nodded. “I guess it is.” She paused, watching him closely. “Should I summon him?”

“May as well get it over with.”

She drew in a deep breath.

“Leiard. Speak to me.”

His eyes widened and his face contorted. Emerahl watched in horror and dismay as all signs of Mirar disappeared to be replaced by a mask of terror. His mouth opened, he sucked in a great lungful of air, then he covered his face and a tortured sound poured out - a thin cry of anguish and fear.

Obviously Leiard’s not gone, she thought dryly.

He was rising to his feet. She rose hastily and moved closer.

“Leiard. Calm down.”

The sound he was making faded to silence. His hands shifted to the sides of his head, as if he wanted to crush it.

“A lie,” he gasped. “A lie - and she doesn’t know! She doesn’t know what she loved was...” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m not real.”

Suddenly his eyes were open and staring at Emerahl. He took two steps toward her and gripped her shoulders. “But I am! If I wasn’t, how is it possible that I can think? And feel? How can I not be real?”

Emerahl stared back at him. He looked half mad, half desperate. She felt a pang of sympathy. “He made you too well,” she found herself saying.

He released her in one shove of rejection. She stumbled backward and one heel struck the bed. It hurt and she let out an involuntary gasp. Leiard did not notice, however.

“Why did he make me capable of love?” he railed. “How could he even do so, when he is incapable of it himself?” He paused, then spun about to stare at her accusingly. “Was this what he planned, then? Create another person, then kill him? He might as well sire a child, then murder it.”

He has a point, she thought.

Then she shook her head. Leiard was not a real person. He had not been born. He had not grown up among a family. He had not formed this personality over time, it had been created. It made sense that Mirar would give his disguise a sense of self, or it would have no sense of self-preservation.

Suddenly he turned from her and began striding toward the cave entrance. Her heart stopped.

“Leiard!” she shouted. “Don’t leave the protection of...” He kept walking. “... curse it. Mirar! Come back!”

He stopped. She watched as his shoulders straightened. He turned to regard her, his expression serious. It was impossible to tell if her summons had worked. To her relief, he walked back into the center of the room.

“That wasn’t pleasant,” he muttered as he sat down on the end of his bed.

“Mirar?” she asked tentatively.

“Yes, it’s me,” he confirmed. He stretched out on the bed, scowling. “So. What shall we try next, Old Hag?”

She snorted at his use of the name. The Old Hag. Provider of cures for ills or bad circumstances.

“Time,” she prescribed. “I need to think. So do you.” She stood up. “Can I trust you to stay put?”

“You can trust me,” he said. “I won’t be voluntarily handing the reins over to him again.”

“Good,” she told him. “Because I can’t stay to watch you. We have to eat, and sleep. It’ll become unpleasant in here if I can’t empty those buckets.”

He glanced toward his own waste bucket and grimaced apologetically. “I hate to change an unpleasant subject to another, but I’m afraid I used mine while you were out.”

She shrugged. Walking to the bucket, she picked it up. “I’ll take care of it now - and see if I can find a more interesting breakfast.”

“Thank you,” he offered, then added a little sheepishly, “We need some fresh water, too.”

She sighed, picked up the water bucket, and walked quickly out of the cave. Her footsteps echoed in the tunnel, but the sound was soon overwhelmed by the crashing of the waterfall. At the end of the tunnel she paused to stare at the falling water.

He might as well sire a child, then murder it.

Leiard’s reaction had shaken her and his words had sent chills down her spine. He clearly understood what his fate would probably be - and he did not like it. He was going to fight for his existence.

This isn’t good, she thought. It can’t be healthy to have two people struggling for control of the same body.

No matter how cruel it seemed, Leiard was an invention. Mirar was the real person. They could not both continue to exist.

She sighed and moved outside the cave. The rain had stopped and the sun emerged from the cloud, reflected in water droplets everywhere. She paused to admire the effect. It was pretty. Romantic, even. She thought of Leiard’s references to Auraya. It was interesting that an invention of Mirar’s could feel romantic love. Surely that meant he was capable of it himself.

If that was so, then everything Leiard was, Mirar could be too. Mirar might not like those aspects of himself, but Leiard was evidence of them.

This isn’t a battle between Leiard and Mirar, she thought suddenly. It’s Mirar fighting what he doesn’t like or accept about himself.

In that case, she thought, he needs to—

A fleeting emotion from an unfamiliar mind touched her senses. She froze, then made herself relax and search her surroundings. Somewhere to the left a male was watching her. From his emotions of concern and worry she gathered that he was alarmed by her presence here in Si. Was he alone?

Heart racing, she searched her surroundings and found another mind. Two minds - no, three. Four!

So much for my brilliant hiding place, she thought. If we are discovered so easily... But who else would have ventured so far into Si?

The Siyee, of course.

She felt alarm ease a little. There was always a chance that the gods were watching her through the Siyee, but the odds were small. She sensed curiosity as well as caution, and guessed finding her here had been a surprise to them.

They were, however, more fearful than she would have expected. Why they feared a lone landwalker woman, she couldn’t guess. Perhaps they were worried that she wasn’t alone.

Well, I had better make an attempt to meet them. If I don’t they are likely to bring back others, whereas if I convince them I’m friendly and don’t intend to stay long they might leave me alone.

She set the bucket down, then walked slowly along the water’s edge, pretending to be looking for food. When she was close enough to the Siyee to be heard over the falling water she straightened and glanced deliberately in the direction of each of the four strangers.

“Greetings, people of the sky,” she called, hoping their language hadn’t changed too much.

There was a long, anxious pause during which one of the watchers - a male - considered what to do. As she sensed him become decisive she turned to face him and saw movement in the trees.

A gray-haired Siyee stepped into view. He stopped and uttered a series of sounds and whistles. Emerahl understood enough to know he was introducing himself.

“Greetings, Veece, Speaker of the North River tribe,” she replied. “I am Jade Dancer.”

“Greetings, Jade Dancer. Why are you here, in Si?”

She considered her answer carefully. “When I heard war was coming, I came here to wait until it is over.”

“Then I bring good news,” he told her. “The war was brief. It ended nearly two moon cycles ago.”

She pretended to be delighted. “That is good news!” Then she added hastily: “Not that I don’t like Si, but it is a bit... ah... hard on a landwalker.”

He moved a few steps closer and she sensed a lingering suspicion. “The forest is dangerous and the journey here difficult for those without wings. How have you lived here? How is it you know our language?”

She shrugged. “I have lived many years on the edge of your lands,” she told him. “I have knowledge and Gifts - and I once helped an injured Siyee, who taught me your language. I work as a healer, when I am among my people.”

“You are not a priestess?”

“Me?” she asked, surprised. “No.”

“I thought all Gifted landwalkers became priests or priestesses.”

“No. Some of us don’t want to.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why not?”

He’s a nosy one, she mused. “I don’t want to tell others what to do, and I don’t want them to tell me what to do.”

For the first time, he smiled. “Forgive my questions. There are two reasons for them. We feared that you were a Pentadrian sorceress - a woman who once attacked our people. We are soon to have our own priests and priestesses so I was curious to know why someone might not want to be one.”

The Siyee are to have their own priests and priestesses? The news saddened her. They had been free from Circlian influence for so long. I suppose they need the protection now that there is the Pentadrian threat.

She considered the old man. He was no longer radiating anxiety, though his curiosity was still tempered by caution. She felt certain he and his companions meant her no harm. They believed she was alone and that was how it must stay. She was not going to take any risks by introducing Mirar.

No, best she convince these people she was alone and harmless.

She crouched and washed her hands in the cold, swiftly running water.

“There’s a basket-fruit tree just down the river from here,” she said. “Would you stay and eat with me? I haven’t had company for a long time.”

He glanced toward his companions, then nodded. “Yes. We will. We cannot stay long, as we are already late in returning to our tribe, but we have time enough to talk and eat.”

He whistled loudly. From among the trees stepped the other three Siyee: a middle-aged woman and two youths. They stared at Emerahl nervously as they approached. Veece introduced them. She smiled at them all, then rose and beckoned.

“Follow me. I don’t know about you, but I always talk better when I’m not hungry.”

And she led them down the river, and away from Mirar.

The sky was a roiling blanket of low black clouds. Lightning dazzled her eyes. There was no thunder, just silence.

There was no storm the night after the battle, Auraya thought as she stepped over bodies. Well, there were no talking corpses either.

She endeavored to avoid looking at the faces of the dead, having learned that this triggered them into movement. Not looking down made navigation of the battlefield difficult, however. The darkness between the flashes of lightning was absolute. The moment came when her foot caught on a corpse, and she found herself looking down.

Bloodshot eyes stared up at her. Lips moved.

“You killed me,” the dead man wheezed.

I used to wake up at this point, she thought. No more, however.

“You killed me,” another voice said. A woman. A priestess. Then another spoke, and another. All around her bodies were moving. Rising, if they could. Dragging themselves forward if they could not. Coming toward her. Chanting their accusation, louder and louder.

“You killed me! You killed me! You killed me!”

She ran, but there was no escaping them. They surrounded her. I used to wake up now, too. Reached out to her. Bore her down into a crush of putrid, rotting bodies. Faces pressed close to hers, spitting and dribbling blood and gore. She felt them press against her chest with their bony fingers, the pressure making it hard to breathe. All the time they uttered the same words.

“Owaya! Owaya!”

What...?

Suddenly she was awake and looking into a pair of large eyes fringed with fine lashes. Eyes that belonged to a veez.

“Owaya,” Mischief repeated aloud, this time with a definite note of satisfaction. He was sitting on her chest, shifting his weight from one paw to another.

“Mischief!” she gasped. As she sat up he leapt off her onto the bed. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then turned to regard the veez.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Scratch?” he suggested.

She obliged him, enjoying the feel of his soft fur as she scratched all along his back. As he made small noises of pleasure, she considered her nightmares. They were getting worse, not better. What this meant, she couldn’t guess.

Perhaps I should consult a Dreamweaver.

She considered the Dreamweavers who were going to be helping in the hospice. Would they agree to help her, or was that asking too much? Of course they would. They’re obliged to help anyone who asks for it.

What would it be like, then? What did dream-healing involve? A mind link of some sort...

Oh.

She couldn’t risk a mind link. Whoever she linked with might discover her true plans for the Dreamweavers.

I can’t do anything. I’m stuck with these nightmares forever. Lying down again, she cursed under her breath. Serves me right, she thought. How could I even contemplate asking the Dreamweavers for help when I’m working toward their downfall?

Mischief made a sad noise, perhaps sensing her mood. She felt him move closer, then the weight of him against her hip as he curled up beside her. His soft breathing gradually slowed. She listened to it for a while, fighting sleep.

Then she found herself standing under a familiar, heavy black sky...

11

The Parade was full of people despite the heat of the morning sun. Their cheering was exhilarating. Reivan moved to join the other Voices’ Companions, her heart beating a little too fast.

When I am a Companion, experiencing crowds like this will become commonplace, she mused. I wonder how long it will take before it is no longer thrilling.

The Voices descended the main stairs of the Sanctuary. At the base, four sets of four muscular slaves, each controlled by a slave master, waited beside litters. The Voices separated and stepped onto a litter each. As they settled onto the couches, the slaves hauled the litters onto their shoulders and set off down the thoroughfare.

The Companions fell into line behind the litters. None spoke. Reivan let out a sigh of relief as she found that, for the first time in a week, nothing was demanding her attention. She was finally free to think.

Reivan’s days had become hectic and long. Imenja wanted her at her side for part of nearly every day. Sometimes Reivan was only required to observe a meeting or debate, other times she watched as Imenja undertook duties that Reivan would take over once she was given the responsibilities of a Companion. Duties like arranging Imenja’s schedule, accepting or sending gifts or donations, refusing bribes and receiving reports of the tasks given to other Servants.

At the same time, her training continued. Imenja had claimed all the time Reivan would have spent learning to use her Skills if she’d had any - and more. In the time that remained Reivan studied law, history, and the gods. Fortunately, her early years reading everything in the monastery she had grown up in were proving an advantage, and even Drevva admitted Reivan was more knowledgeable than the average new Servant-novice.

Reivan stayed up late and rose early. The list of duties she would have to take on as a Companion was so long now that she began to feel overwhelmed.

“How am I going to do all this?” she had asked Imenja.

Imenja had smiled. “Delegate.”

“Give work to others? But how do I know who to trust?”

“I’ll tell you if they’re not trustworthy, and if I don’t you’ll soon find out who is and who isn’t. I am not going to blame you for someone else’s mistakes.”

“And if nobody wants to do it?”

Imenja had laughed. “I think you’ll find plenty of Servants willing and eager to help. Like you, they’re here to serve the gods.”

“Are you saying I can actually reward people with work?”

“Yes. So long as you don’t make them see it that way. You are favoring them over others with a task few would be trusted with.”

There were many rites and ceremonies that a Companion needed to be present at, even though they had no place in the rite. Reivan suspected that they attended in order to fetch and carry if such a need arose. Which was probably why nobody had protested whenever Imenja took her along.

Today she would attend the Rite of the Sun. She had never observed or participated in the fertility ceremony before. It was for married couples. Rich married couples. Only participants and Servants were present for the whole ceremony, but Voices attended the beginning of the rite.

The rite was the source of much curiosity for young Pentadrians - and all foreigners - because few ever talked about it. The Servants involved were sworn to protect the privacy of the participants, and participants were rarely willing to describe their experiences. Avvenans, as a people, considered talking of the intimacies of one’s marriage to be crass and impolite.

This reluctance of Pentadrians to talk about the rite usually spurred foreigners into wild speculation. Reivan had encountered plenty of Sennons during her time mapping the mines in Northern Ithania who believed her people indulged in ritual orgies. She had explained that only married couples attended, but that did not convince foreigners there was nothing lewd about the rite.

So long as it involves sex, she thought, they’ll think it’s depraved. Sennons are even more prudish than Pentadrians. I wonder if Circlians are the same.

The curved wall of the Temple of Hrun appeared ahead. Reivan regarded the distant shadows of the arched entrance with longing. It was growing hotter, and she was discovering how uncomfortable her black robes could be in the full glare of the sun.

She looked enviously at the slaves walking before her, who wore nothing but short trousers. Their tanned skin glittered with droplets of perspiration. A rumor she had heard recently came back to her. One of the freed slaves of the army had married a Servant. She wondered what crime the man had done to earn himself a life of slavery in the first place. Surely the Servant wouldn’t have married him if he was a rapist or murderer.

Were these men before her guilty of such evil deeds? She eyed them dubiously. Making criminals slaves of the Sanctuary was supposed to be better than imprisoning them in jails. All Servants were Skilled, therefore capable of defending themselves should a slave make trouble.

Except me, she thought. I hope my fellow Servants remember that - or that my supporters do and my enemies don’t.

Imenja’s litter reached the Temple doorway and disappeared inside. The moments before Reivan stepped out of the baking sunlight felt endless. Finally she was walking in cool shadows through a wide arched corridor. A delicious breeze cooled her. She looked ahead and drew in a breath in wonder.

Lush greenness lay beyond the end of the corridor. Two doors at the end had been opened to reveal a wide circle of grass and plants. A pool sparkled at the center and low garden beds and trees edged the grass. The roof was open to the sky, yet fountains kept the air moist. It was like an oasis in the middle of the desert.

Reaching the end of the corridor, she followed the slaves along a path that circled the garden, sheltered by a long, curved veranda. Open doors broke the inner wall of the Temple at regular intervals. She estimated that there were more than fifty of them.

The four litters were carried to the far side of the garden, where they were lowered onto the ground before a raised platform. A Dedicated Servant stepped forward to welcome the Voices.

As Reivan recognized the man she felt a thrill of pleasure. It was Nekaun, the Dedicated Servant who had welcomed her after she had become a Servant-novice. Only yesterday she had learned that he was among the Dedicated Servants still eligible for the position of First Voice after having their magical strength tested. She watched as he greeted the four Voices and invited them to sit. Four benches were brought for the Voices by Servants. As the other Companions sat on the edge of the platform, Reivan followed suit.

“Let the Rite of the Sun begin,” Imenja said.

Nekaun inclined his head then turned to face the garden. He clapped his hands, and from a side door Servants began to file out. As they did they began singing. It was a tune both solemn and joyous, and Reivan made out phrases about love and children. Reivan guessed these were the Servant-guides who would attend to the couples participating in the rite.

Next came the couples. They all wore the same plain white clothing provided by the Temple and their feet were bare. Entering the garden, they walked out onto the grass and waited there. Some looked excited, others nervous. Their ages varied considerably. Some had barely reached adulthood. Others were middle-aged. Reivan noted some strange matches obviously made for money or position. Older men with younger women, ugly with attractive. Even an older woman with a young man - though both looked pleased with the situation.

I don’t envy the Servant-guides their duties, Reivan thought.

The song ended. Nekaun stepped onto the grass.

“The Rite of the Sun is an ancient one,” he told the participants, “begun by Hrun many thousands of years ago. Its aim is to teach the arts of pleasure, the skills of harmonious living, and aid in the creation of new life. Today it is taking place in temples all over Southern Ithania, and even in parts of Northern Ithania where our people are still welcome.

“For a month you will remain with us. You will feast so that the fire within the woman burns hot, and drink so the well within the man fills with the water of new life.”

Reivan found herself scowling and quickly smoothed her face. Some of the great Thinkers of the last century had declared the old traditional belief that man was the source of new life and the woman literally an oven to warm it in - the hotter the better - was nonsense. Dissecting the bodies of dead women they had found no evidence of fire. No flame, no ash, no scorching. Fire needed fuel and air. There was no evidence that either existed within a woman’s body.

By examining the internal organs of both fertile and infertile men and women, they had concluded that the woman grew seeds within her body and the man provided only nutrients. It was not a popular idea and only a few Thinkers had accepted it - not even when it was suggested that the more nutrients a man supplied, the stronger and more robust the child.

Nekaun was still addressing the crowd, speaking about exploration and learning, of challenges and rewards. She found her attention drifting.

I suppose, as a Servant, I’ll be expected to support the flame and water idea, when I’m more inclined, from reading and listening to those who have performed experiments and made dissections, to believe the seed and nutrient idea.

But... surely the gods would not allow their Servants to teach something that is wrong?

Nekaun had finished speaking. He clapped his hands and from out of a side door came a stream of domestics carrying either pitchers or trays laden with small ceramic goblets. Two approached the dais, pouring drinks for the Voices, the Companions and Reivan, and finally Nekaun. The rest offered refreshments to the Servants around the garden.

The Servants took three goblets each, filled them, then moved into the grassed area to choose a couple. Reivan noted that the couples with an older participant tended to be chosen by older Servants. When all pairs had become trios, Nekaun lifted his goblet high.

“Let us drink to Hrun, Giver of Life.”

“Hrun,” all chanted.

As Nekaun lowered the goblet to his lips, the Voices, Companions and participants did the same. The drink was a surprisingly strong alcoholic brew full of the flavors of fruits, nuts and spices.

“Let us drink to Sheyr, King of Gods.”

“Sheyr.”

This was not the only ritual in which the first of the gods was mentioned after a lesser god. In the many rites of the Servant-warriors, Alor was recognized first. Nekaun now spoke that god’s name.

“Let us drink to Alor, the Warrior.”

“Alor.”

Three mouthfuls had warmed Reivan’s stomach. The drink was delicious. Pity the goblet is so small.

“Let us drink to Ranah, Goddess of the Moon.”

“Ranah.”

Now she felt the alcohol beginning to heat her blood. She regarded the dregs of it in dismay.

“Let us drink to Sruul, the Soul Trader.”

“Sruul.”

Swallowing the last mouthful, Reivan regarded the empty goblet wistfully. She wondered what this drink was called, and if it was sacred to the Temple of Hrun or could be purchased elsewhere.

“That’s not part of the rite,” Vervel murmured.

Reivan looked up to see that Nekaun was now moving among the couples, welcoming them personally.

“No,” Imenja agreed. “The Head Servants of the Temple of Hrun have always been free to embellish the ceremony.”

“I like what he’s doing,” Genza said, watching Nekaun. “It’s reassuring them.” She turned to regard Imenja. “What do you think, then?”

Imenja smiled crookedly. “Of him being First Voice? I think he would grow to fit the role.”

Shar chuckled. “Rapidly, I imagine.”

“He’s popular,” Genza said, turning to watch Nekaun again.

“Among the Servants. What about the people?” Vervel asked.

“They have no reason to dislike him,” Shar replied. “It’s hard to offend anyone when you’re Head Servant of the Temple of Hrun.”

“A role which he has performed well,” Imenja added. She narrowed her eyes at Nekaun. “He is one of my preferred candidates. The others may be more experienced, but they are less...”

She did not finish her sentence. Nekaun was walking back to his place at the edge of the garden. He started addressing the couples again. Reivan did not hear what he said, instead catching a whisper behind her.

“... charming?”

Reivan glanced back to see Genza raise one eyebrow suggestively at Imenja.

Imenja snorted softly. “Charismatic.”

They both turned their attention to Nekaun. Reivan looked up and heard him say something about beginning lessons. The Servants began to sing again while leading their chosen couples out of the garden. Each headed toward one of the open doors of the inner wall. They stepped inside and the doors closed, ending the song. The garden was suddenly silent and empty.

Imenja rose, followed by the other Voices. As she followed suit, Reivan felt a little dizzy. A domestic approached to take their empty goblets. Nekaun walked back to join them, smiling with obvious satisfaction.

“It was a beautiful ceremony, Dedicated Servant Nekaun,” Imenja told him.

He bowed his head. “Thank you, Second Voice. And thank you all for participating.”

Imenja’s expression became serious. “We have always done so. This year it is all the more important to take joy in the creation of new life as well as grieve loss and death. It gives us hope.”

Nekaun nodded. “It does indeed. Will you be returning to the Sanctuary now, or would you like to stay for the feast?”

“We will return now,” she replied. “As always there is much for us to do.”

“Then let me escort you to the gate.”

Reivan watched him closely. She tried to imagine him proud and all powerful like Kuar had been, rather than this friendly and obliging Dedicated Servant, and found she couldn’t.

One thing is sure, she mused. If he becomes First Voice he will be nothing like his predecessor. If that is better or worse, I cannot guess.

As the platten turned into the street, Auraya was relieved to see that no crowd waited outside the hospice. Four guards stood beside the door, alert and ready to call for help from those that waited inside if there was trouble they could not handle on their own.

Extra guards had been employed after two had been overcome by street thugs a few nights ago, allowing a gang to break into the hospice. The intruders had smashed some of the furniture and stolen supplies, but had not damaged or taken anything that was irreplaceable. Nobody had seen the looters, but the mugs that had been hired to tackle the guards had been found. They claimed their employers were rich young men from the high end of the city.

A worker was touching up the paintwork, his movements hurried. Auraya read from his mind that someone had distracted the guards last night and painted a derogatory phrase about Dreamweavers on the wall. She smothered a sigh.

Resistance to the hospice was inevitable. People rarely gave up their prejudices overnight, even if it appeared the gods wanted them to. If they didn’t like what the gods decided, they reasoned that the decision was simply a foolish human’s misinterpretation of their will.

And they could be right, she mused. My orders came from Juran, not directly from any god. Yet even if the idea of starting a hospice had been Juran’s alone, the gods would have put a stop to it if they disapproved.

The painter looked up. His eyes widened as he saw her. He made a few more jabs at the hospice façade with his brush, then hurried inside. As the platten pulled up before the door, the guards stood to attention and made the sign of the circle.

Auraya picked up the parcel lying on the seat beside her and stepped down to the pavement. She strode to the door of the hospice and pushed it open with magic. As she stepped into the hall inside, several faces turned toward her. She sensed the priests’ and priestesses’ relief that she had arrived and knew that they had been waiting in a tense silence. The cause of their awkwardness were five Dreamweavers standing calmly behind Raeli. Though these men and woman looked relaxed, Auraya detected anticipation, curiosity and fear.

She smiled at them all and, as always, was a little amazed at how the simple gesture could ease the tension in a room.

“Thank you for coming,” she began, meeting the gaze of each person. “What we begin today is a noble task, but one not without dangers. Recent events have convinced me that a public ceremony to celebrate the opening of this hospice would only invite trouble, and I know you all agree. Instead we will mark the occasion quietly and privately.

“Dreamweaver Adviser Raeli and High Priest Teelor, will you come forward.”

The two approached her, both serious, both dignified. Auraya unwrapped the parcel, revealing a wooden plaque inlaid with gold lettering: For the benefit of all. She sensed the Dreamweavers’ and healers’ approval.

The plaque had been Danjin’s idea, and he had come up with the words. To him it was suitably ironic, since the Dreamweaver policy of never refusing help was going to lead to their downfall. For Auraya it was a reminder of why she was doing this: to save souls that might turn away from the gods.

Raeli and Teelor glanced back at the entrance to the corridor, where two sets of steps had been placed. A pair of chains hung down from the top of the entrance, spaced at the same distance apart as the hooks set into the top of the plaque. Auraya held the plaque out to the pair. They took hold of either end, carried the plaque together to the corridor entrance, climbed the stairs and attached the chains. When the plaque hung in place, Auraya spread her hands in a suitably dramatic gesture.

“I declare the hospice open.”

The Dreamweavers and healers relaxed. Descending the steps, Raeli and Teelor turned to regard each other. A smile spread across Teelor’s face and the corner of Raeli’s lips curled upward slightly.

“Everything is in place,” Auraya said. “All we need now is someone to treat.”

The pair exchanged glances.

“Actually,” Teelor said. “We have already. They came in last night. A woman having difficulty giving birth and an old man with lung sickness.”

“The woman and babe are recovering,” Raeli added. “The old man...” She shrugged. “It is age as well as illness ailing him, I think. We have made him comfortable.”

Teelor’s eyebrows rose. “Turns out they can’t cure everything,” he murmured to Auraya.

Raeli’s mouth quirked into a crooked smile. “Age is not a disease,” she told him. “It is a natural process of life. After thousands of years of gathering knowledge, we have no delusions about what can or cannot be achieved.”

The high priest chuckled. “I would not be surprised if you used that excuse for all the cases you fail to cure,” he teased.

Auraya watched them both in surprise and amazement. These two appeared to have formed a bond of respect, perhaps even the beginnings of friendship. When had that happened? She looked closer and saw memories of a long night struggling together to save the mother and her child. It had been a learning experience for both of them.

She felt a stirring of hope, but it was stilled again by the recollection of what she was truly meaning to achieve here. Yet the nagging guilt was eased by the knowledge that, by learning from the Dreamweavers, the healer priests were going to be able to help many, many more people. Suddenly she saw the whole project in a different way. There was little in life that did not have bad as well as good effects. This hospice was one of them. All in all, the good outweighed the bad.

And that was a typically Dreamweaverish way to look at it.

12

“You’re getting a bit old for this,” Teiti said. “But I suppose it’s good for you to have friends outside the palace, too.”

Imi pulled a face. “Of course I’m not too old! There are children older than me here.”

Her aunt looked out toward the other side of the Children’s Pool and scowled disapprovingly. “I know.”

Following her gaze, Imi saw that the usual crowd of older children had garnered by the edge of the deeper section. Unlike the young boys and girls splashing about in the rest of the pool, these lounged around as if they were above childish games. There were plenty of boys and girls in pairs, too, some with arms linked.

Not too far away, some slightly younger children mimicked the older ones. But most had not quite grown beyond their dislike of the opposite gender and their attempts at serious talk often dissolved into childish romping.

It was this group that Imi headed for once she entered the water. There was a boy called Rissi among them who often boasted of his travels outside the city with his trader father, and of knowing secret ways to smuggle things out of the city, and she wanted to talk to him.

The children regarded her with wary interest as she swam up to them. They always let her join in their romping and listen to their conversations. She hoped this was because they liked her, not because they didn’t dare tell a princess to go away.

Rissi was among them. He grinned as she drew herself up onto the bank beside them.

“Hi, Princess,” he said.

“Hi,” she replied. “Been on any adventures lately?”

His nose wrinkled. “Father found out I skipped lessons. Won’t let me go with him on the next trip.”

She scowled in sympathy. “That’s no fun.”

“The king’s birthday is in three days,” one of the girls said to her. “Are you excited?”

Imi grinned. “Yes!”

“Decided who you’re taking with you yet?”

This was the third time the girl had asked this question in the last few weeks. Imi hadn’t understood why she might “take someone with her” at first, since she already lived at the palace. Then, last night, she had realized this girl wanted to come to the party, and hoped Imi would invite her.

“I haven’t had a chance to ask father,” Imi replied. She sighed. “He’s very busy. I haven’t seen him in a week.”

They made sympathetic noises. The conversation turned to other matters. Imi listened and occasionally asked questions. Some of the questions she’d asked .them in the past had been met with frowns or even smothered laughter, but the more she learned about their lives the easier it was to ask questions that made sense to them.

Teasing started, then the boys began wrestling. For once Rissi didn’t join in, though he watched their antics with a grin. Imi moved closer and called his name. He looked at her in surprise.

“If your father won’t take you out of the city, why don’t you go on your own?” she suggested.

He stared at her, then shook his head. “I’d get into trouble.”

“You’re already in trouble,” she pointed out.

He laughed. “You’re right. I may as well do what I want. But where would I go?”

“I can think of a place. I overheard someone talking about it weeks ago. A place where there’s treasure.”

From the way he looked at her, she knew she’d caught his interest.

“Where?”

She swam a little away from him. “It’s a secret.”

“I won’t tell.”

“No? What if you were seen swimming out the main tunnel? They’d want to find out why.”

“I wouldn’t tell them.”

“What if your father said he wouldn’t take you out ever again? I bet you’d tell then.”

He frowned and looked away. “Maybe. But I wouldn’t go that way.”

She feigned surprise. “What other way is there?”

“A secret way.”

“There’s another way into the city?”

He looked at her. “No. You can only go out that way ‘cause of the currents.”

She waded closer and lowered her voice. “If you show me the way out, I’ll show you where the secret treasure is.”

He paused and regarded her thoughtfully.

“It would be lots more fun than hanging around here all day,” she said.

“Do you promise to show me the treasure?” he asked.

“I promise.”

“On your father’s life?”

The vow was a common one among the children, but it still made her pause.

“I promise, on my father’s life, to show you the secret treasure if you show me the secret way out of the city.”

He nodded, then grinned. “Follow me.”

She blinked in surprise. “You want to go now?”

“Why not?”

She glanced back at Teiti, who was watching her closely.

“Wait. We’ll have to trick my aunt or she’ll stop me.”

“No need,” Rissi said. “You can get there from this pool. She’ll see you dive, and not know where you came up. By the time she realizes you’re not here any more, we’ll be gone.”

This was the opportunity she’d been waiting for, but still she hesitated. Teiti was going to be so angry.

Rissi’s eyebrows rose mockingly. “What? Afraid of getting into trouble?”

She swallowed, then shook her head. “No. Show me.”

He waded into deeper water, then dove under the surface. She took a deep breath, hoping that Teiti thought they were competing at how long they could hold their breath for, then followed.

Rissi headed for the deeper water near where the older children lounged. He swam quickly, forcing Imi to work hard to keep up. A tunnel entrance appeared, and she felt the current that kept the Children’s Pool fresh pull her in after Rissi.

She had never swum into this tunnel before, and could only trust that Rissi would not have come this way if the tunnel didn’t come out somewhere before they ran out of breath.

It was not long before she saw the rippled surface of the water above. Rissi swam up, took a breath, then dove down again. She followed suit, catching a glimpse of a poorer part of the city.

They swam through several more tunnels, the water and houses growing dirtier each time. She realized with distaste that they were in the outflow currents that bore waste out of the city, and made sure she didn’t swallow any of the water.

The current grew ever stronger. Surfacing near a crumbling wall of a house, they clung to rocks at the edge to prevent themselves being swept on. Rissi looked at her, his expression serious.

“This is the last part. When we come out we’ll be in the sea. The only way back in is through the main tunnel. Or we can climb out now and walk back.”

She looked in the direction the current was surging. It would pull them through whatever tunnel lay ahead. If there was a blockage or she got caught somehow, she might easily drown.

“How many times have you done this?”

He grinned. “Once.”

Her heart was racing. She realized she was terrified. “This is a bad idea.”

“We don’t have to go through,” he told her. “I won’t tell the others you didn’t go. I’ve shown you the way out, so you have to tell me where the treasure is.”

She looked at him and felt a surge of frustration and anger. He hadn’t said it would be so dangerous. But he had done it before and survived. How hard could it be? She just had to let the current take her through. She gathered her courage and forced herself to stare at him defiantly.

“Not until we get to the other side,” she said.

He laughed then gave a whoop. “Let’s do it! Try to keep in the middle of the flow. And take a really big breath. I’ll hold on to you as long as I can. Ready? On three. One, two...”

Her heart was in her mouth, but somehow she managed to suck in a breath.

“...three!”

They dove down into the current. He grabbed her wrist and held tightly as they rushed into darkness. She wondered how she was supposed to keep to the middle when she couldn’t see, then she realized the walls rushing past them were faintly visible. Tiny curls of light decorated the surface.

Glow worms, she thought. Their presence indicated just how dirty the water was. She was too terrified to worry about getting sick, however. She had never travelled so fast before; she was sure she was going to be dashed against the wall before they made it out.

The tunnel began to curve this way and that. They had to swim frantically to avoid colliding with the occasional outcrop of rock. She glimpsed all manner of things stuck in cracks and dips of the surface - even, to her horror, a skull.

Just as her lungs were beginning to protest, she rounded a corner and found the current was sweeping her toward a slash of dark blue. Rissi let go of her and swam forward so he shot through the narrow gap. She kicked out and managed to slip through without touching the rock.

The current eased and died. She looked back to see a rock wall fading into a haze. Below she could see a vague hint of sea floor. In all other directions was a depthless blue that was somehow frightening in its potential.

The urgency of her need for air was more pressing, however. She swam toward the rippling surface above. As she broke through she gasped out the breath she had been holding then began sucking in another.

Before she could get a proper lungful of air, her head plunged under the surface again and she gulped in water. She kicked upward, broke through into the air again and coughed out the water. All the time she had to fight to keep her head above the surface.

“Rissi!” she called frantically.

“Imi,” came the reply. There was a pause, then his head appeared.

“Why is it moving so much?” she gasped. “Is there a storm?”

He laughed. “No. This is normal. These are waves.” He grinned. “You haven’t been outside before, have you?”

“Yes! But it wasn’t this... this wavy.”

By keeping her legs moving, she found she was able to rise and fall with the waves.

“So where now?” he asked.

“What?”

“Where’s the treasure?”

“Oh.” She gathered her thoughts. “Xiti Island.”

He stared at her in dismay. “Xiti!”

“Yes. Do you know the way?”

As he shook his head she felt a wave of disappointment. “Oh. I should have asked.”

“I know where Xiti is,” he told her. “But it’s far from here. It would take hours for us to swim there.”

She felt hope return. “How many hours?”

He shook his head again. “Three. Maybe four.”

“That’s not too bad. We could get there and back by tonight.”

“How long will it take to get this treasure?” He frowned. “What is the treasure? I’m not swimming all day if it isn’t worth it.”

She smiled. “It’s worth it. I overheard traders talking about sea bells. They said there were some there the size of a fist.”

His eyes brightened. “Did they? Then why haven’t they taken them?”

“Because...” Imi considered her answer. Would he change his mind if she mentioned the landwalkers? “Because they’re waiting for them to get bigger.”

“Bigger,” he repeated. “I guess they wouldn’t notice if a few went missing... But... we’d be stealing them, Imi. What if we got caught?”

“ ‘Nothing the ocean grows is owned by any man until it is taken,‘ ” she quoted.

His lips twitched, then he began to grin. “I’ll be rich!” He looked at her. “But you’re already rich. What do you want sea bells for?”

She smiled. “A birthday present for my father.”

“So that’s what this is all about.” He laughed. “We’re outside the city and both already in trouble. We may as well keep going. Follow me.”

He dove under the surface. Taking a deep breath, Imi plunged under the waves and swam after him.

Mirar regarded the growing contents of the makeshift table in surprise. A bowl of soup steamed in front of him. On a thick slab of wood lay something wrapped in leaves that smelled of roasted meat and herbs. A bowl of green leaves and fresh roots sat to one side of this and another of steaming cooked tubers on the other, and there was the usual bowl laden with ripe fruit.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“A feast,” she replied.

“Is this what’s been keeping you busy all morning?”

“Mostly.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“We’re celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?”

She placed the two wooden cups he’d carved on the table then straightened. “I haven’t detected your emotions in over a week. I think that’s long enough to prove you’ve got the hang of hiding your mind.”

He narrowed his eyes. “That’s not all.”

“What? Being free to leave the cave is not reason enough?”

She produced a leather pouch and lowered it to the cups. Out of the hollow stick that acted as a spout came a stream of dark purple liquid. The aroma was familiar, though he had not smelled it in centuries. Teepi, the Siyee’s liquor.

“Where’d you get that from?”

“I traded for it. With the Siyee.”

“They came back?”

“Yes, early this morning. I think they’re concerned I’ll perish. Or that I’ve decided to stay.”

“Hmmm.” He picked up the cup and sipped. The fiery liquor warmed his throat. “It’s just as well I have learned to hide my thoughts. We can’t stay here much longer.”

“No,” she agreed. She sat down and picked up her bowl of soup. “They also gave me a girri. I had to cook it today, so I thought I might as well make us a feast. Nothing much else for me to do now.”

He watched her drink the soup. “You’re getting bored with me, aren’t you?”

She smiled slyly. “No. I have never found you boring, Mirar. In fact, I’ve always found you a little too interesting for my own good.”

He chuckled. So. There it was. The invitation. He had noted the way she sometimes looked at him. Thoughtful. Curious. Admiring. The spark of attraction was still there for her. Was it for him?

He thought back to other times circumstances had brought them to each other’s beds and felt an old but familiar interest flare. Yes, he thought. It’s still there.

“I got to wondering today,” she said, setting her empty bowl aside, “if any of the other Wilds have survived.”

She looked up at him, seeking his opinion. He took another sip of Teepi, giving him time to slowly extract himself from pleasant memories.

“I doubt it,” he replied.

She pursed her lips. Which reminded him of another time when she had paused and made that face, considering what they might do next. She had been naked at the time, he recalled. He shook his head to clear his mind.

“If you and I are still alive, why not them?” Emerahl insisted. “We know The Oracle was killed, and The Farmer, but what about The Gull? What of The Twins and The Maker.”

“The Maker is dead. He killed himself when his creations were destroyed.”

She looked at him in horror. “Poor Heri.”

Mirar shrugged. “He was old. The oldest, apart from The Oracle - and she was half mad.”

“The Gull and The Twins were younger,” she said thoughtfully. “What about The Librarian?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I doubt he still watches over the Library of Soor. That place was a ruin even before the gods’ war.”

She sighed. He considered her carefully. His interest in her was still there, though dampened by the conversation. She was too distracted. If he got her attention, what would she do?

“This is too morbid a conversation for a celebration,” he told her. He reached out and took a piece of fruit, then carved a slice from it. She turned to watch him, but her gaze was still far away. Reaching across the table, he held the slice up to her mouth. “Life is too long to ignore opportunities for pleasure,” he murmured.

Her eyes widened, then narrowed. “You said that...”

“A long time ago. I wondered if you would remember.”

She took the piece of fruit. “I could hardly forget.”

He looked meaningfully at the slice. “Are you going to share that?”

Her pupils widened and a smile slowly spread across her face. “It would be greedy of me not to.” She rose and moved around the table, her eyes bright. Placing the slice of fruit between her lips, she leaned forward and offered it to him.

Oh, yes, he thought. He caught her waist, pulled her closer and bit into the slice. Their lips touched, their mouths met around the crisp sweetness of the fruit. He felt his teeth break through juicy flesh, felt her hands slide around his back, and the firmness of her back beneath his own palms.

His interest flared into desire. He felt her respond to it with equal passion. Suddenly he wanted too much at once. He was pulling her down onto his bed and trying to undress her at the same time, but achieving neither. She laughed and pushed him onto his back, then straddled him. Pulling off her clothing, she tossed it aside. He caught his breath as her breasts were uncovered. She was perfect, but how else could she be when she could so easily change her age?

She brushed his hands away long enough to pull off his vest and tunic. Her hand moved to the waist of his trousers. The ties came undone. She tugged the waistband down, then looked up at him and grinned. Then, without a word, she sidled close and he felt the warmth of her begin to envelop him.

No!

The thought was not his. An emotion tore though him, jangling his nerves. He could not put a name to it. Horror? Anger? He gasped in confusion and shock. He felt as if his entire being was sinking into misery. The fire in his blood was doused by a chill that he could not shake, and a lingering sense of another will fighting his own.

Leiard.

“No!” he protested. He sat up, the sudden movement causing Emerahl to lose her balance momentarily. “You bastard!”

Emerahl braced herself and stared at him. “I trust that’s not me you’re talking to,” she said dryly.

He found he could not reply. It took all his will to keep control of his body.

I can’t let you do this, Leiard said. I can’t let you betray Auraya again.

Auraya doesn’t matter! Mirar fumed. You can’t go back to her. You don’t even exist!

Emerahl was watching him through slowly narrowing eyes. Mirar felt Leiard’s will weaken. He took a deep breath, trying to rein in the anger. “I didn’t mean you,” he explained to her. “I meant him. He did it. He... stopped me. I can’t believe... I thought...”

“That if you didn’t let him take control he couldn’t bother you any more?” She shook her head and climbed off his bed. “I told you it wouldn’t be that easy.”

“What am I supposed to do?” he exclaimed, standing up and yanking his trousers up to his waist. If it was possible to die of humiliation he felt he might have then. “Is he going to stop me from bedding any woman from now on, just because he feels loyal to... to that...”

“Auraya,” she finished. She reached for her clothing and began to dress.

Her acceptance of his sudden impotence was somehow more mortifying than if she’d been amused by it. She could, at least, behave as if she was surprised.

“You have to accept that Leiard is a part of you,” she said. “He cannot feel anything that doesn’t exist in yourself.”

“Obviously he can. I don’t love Auraya.”

She turned and smiled at him. “No, but a part of you does. A part you don’t like, unfortunately. You have to accept that part and everything that Leiard proves that you can be. Otherwise...” She frowned and looked away. “I fear you’ll never be whole again.”

“You don’t know that for certain.”

“No, but I’d be willing to bet on it.” She moved back to her table and sat down. Unwrapping the roasted girri, she began to tear off pieces of meat. “Eat. I’m not offended. A little frustrated. Perhaps a little embarrassed. But not offended.”

“You’re embarrassed,” he muttered. “I’m utterly humiliated. I’ve never been unable to—”

“Let’s just eat,” she interrupted. “I don’t need another tall story of your sexual prowess. Not now. And definitely not while I’m eating.”

He shook his head. Anger had subsided into a sinking, dark emotion and he found he could not be bothered with it any more. He sat on the edge of his bed and glowered at the food. Seeing the skin of Teepi lying on the edge of the table, he topped up his glass, tossed the drink down, then poured himself another.

“They’re not tall stories,” he growled.

“I know,” Emerahl said, in an overly placating way.

“I really—”

“Just eat.”

Sighing, he did as he was told.

Teiti’s legs shook as she stood on the bank of the Children’s Pool. An hour had passed since Imi had disappeared. She could still remember the last glimpse she had caught of the princess as she dove into the water.

She and the guards had questioned the other children, but none had seen Imi leave. Teiti had sent out all of Imi’s guards but one to ask people around the many entrances to the cave if they had seen the princess.

“She’ll be back,” the remaining guard soothed. “Most likely she gave us the slip so she could get a bit of private time with that boy.”

That doesn’t reassure me at all, Teiti thought. She’s too young to be interested in boys. If she was, I’d be just as alarmed that she was with some lowly trader’s son.

“Lady?”

She looked down to see a pair of girls standing in front of her.

“Yes? What is it?” she asked.

“Just thought you should know,” one of the girls said. “There’s a tunnel at the deepest part of the pool. It flows out into the city. I know Rissi’s used it before, when he wanted to avoid getting beaten up by Kizz.”

Beaten up? Teiti smothered a curse. Why did I let Imi play with these ruffians?

“Where is it?”

The girls pointed. “At the deepest place.”

“I’ll go and look,” the guard offered. “If they’re right, we’re going to have to start searching the whole city.”

The whole city. Teiti sighed. The chances that the king would not find out about this were dwindling rapidly. The longer Imi was missing, the less Teiti cared what the girl’s father would say or do. What mattered most was whether Imi was safe.

“Go,” she said. “Find it. Find out where it goes. I’ll send for more assistance.”

As he waded into the water she turned away and started toward the main entrance of the pool. One of the guards was there, questioning people. She would send him to the palace. It was time to inform the king of his daughter’s disappearance.

13

The two veez circled each other slowly, their tails twitching. Auraya sighed and shook her head.

“They’ve forgotten they’ve grown up.”

Mairae laughed. “Yes - they’re like a pair of children who can only relate by wrestling with and insulting each other.”

Stardust leapt on top of Mischief, and all detail was lost as the two became a blur of rolling, twisting fur, legs and tail.

Mairae chuckled. “How is Mischief’s training going?”

“Well.” Auraya grimaced. “There’s not a mechanical lock that he can’t open, and he’s become much easier to link with now that he’s matured a bit and I can actually hold his attention for more than a few moments. He speaks into my mind now, too.”

The two veez separated. They stood apart and chattered at each other, then simultaneously affected boredom and began washing themselves.

“Have you met Keerim?” Mairae asked.

“No.”

“He’s a famous veez trainer, visiting from Somrey. Not bad-looking, too. You should arrange t—”

:Auraya.

The call was from Juran.

:Yes?

:The gods have called us to the Altar. Is Mairae with you?

:Yes. I will tell her.

:Good. I will collect you both on the way down.

Mairae was regarding her expectantly.

“What is it?”

Auraya rose. “We’ve been called to the Altar.”

“The Altar?” Mairae’s eyebrows rose. She stood and scooped Stardust off the floor. “How unusual. I wonder if the gods have an answer for us.”

“On the existence of Pentadrian gods?” Auraya tried to pick up Mischief, but he darted away. She moved to the bell rope and pulled it. There was no time for chasing veez. A servant would have to take care of him.

They left the room, entering the circular staircase at the center of the Tower. Auraya heard Mischief speak her name telepathically, somehow managing to convey immense disappointment at her leaving so abruptly. Mairae put Stardust down.

“Go home,” she ordered. The veez scampered down the stairs. “Good girl.” Mairae straightened and looked up the stairwell.

“The cage is already descending.”

“Yes. Juran said he would collect us on the way past.”

They watched the base of the cage slowly drop toward them. As it drew level with their eyes it slowed. Dyara and Juran stood inside. When the cage stopped, Juran opened the door and stepped aside to let them in.

His expression was serious and perhaps a little pensive, but he managed a small smile. “No, I do not know why the gods have called us,” he said before either of them could ask. “Let us hope it is good news.”

Dyara looked at him and lifted an eyebrow. “We would hardly be hoping for bad news now, would we?”

The White leader chuckled. “No.”

The cage began descending again. As it passed Rian’s rooms, Mairae looked at Juran questioningly.

“Rian was in the city. He’ll meet us at the Altar,” Juran explained. He looked at Auraya. “How is the hospice faring?”

She nodded. “Remarkably well. There have been a few differences of opinion, but that’s to be expected. Our methods aren’t going to be the same.” She paused, wondering if that was the sort of information he really wanted. “We are learning much from the Dreamweavers,” she added.

“And they from us?”

“Occasionally.”

“Are the Dreamweavers holding back knowledge?” Dyara asked.

“Not yet,” Auraya replied.

“I’m surprised,” the woman said. “Who’d have thought they’d entrust their secrets to priests?”

“They’ve never considered their knowledge to be secret,” Auraya told her. “That would give them a reason to withhold healing, which is against their principles. They never deny anyone aid.”

“An admirable principle,” Juran said. “One I think we should consider adopting.”

Dyara turned to stare at him in surprise.

“Even if it meant healing Pentadrians?”

Juran smiled wryly. “It is possible that superior healing skills would help us win the favor of people of the southern continent one day.”

The cage began to slow. “Not if their gods are real,” Auraya pointed out.

“No,” Juran agreed.

The cage stopped at the center of the hall.

“Then having plenty of skilled Circlian healers will be even more important,” Juran replied. “We can’t rely on a heathen cult to treat our wounded, no matter how skilled it is. Doing so would give them more influence than I would like them to have.”

He led them out of the cage. Auraya considered his words. He obviously expected Dreamweavers to still exist in a century - not to fade away once their main advantage over Circlians had been taken away. Perhaps his reasons for asking her to start the hospice were a little different from what she’d assumed.

Juran reached the entrance of the Tower and led them out into bright sunlight. A covered platten had just pulled up outside the Dome. Rian stepped out and signalled to the driver to move away, then he turned to wait for them. As Auraya drew closer, she saw that his eyes were aglow with religious fervor. He said nothing as they reached him, just fell into step as they strode under the arches of the Dome.

After the bright sunlight the shade within the Dome was a relief. Auraya’s eyes adjusted to the softer light and she saw the five triangular sides of the Altar opening. Juran led them across the building to the dais, then up into the Altar. As soon as all had taken their seats the points began to hinge upward again.

Juran paused, as he always did, to consider what he was going to say. But as he drew breath to speak, Auraya felt a movement nearby. Suddenly she was aware of the magic in the world around her, and that magic rippled and thrummed with a presence. She turned to face it.

“Chaia, Huan, Lore, Yranna, Saru,” Juran began. “We—”

Auraya gasped as she realized what she was sensing was a god.

:Hello, Auraya.

A glow began to form in one of the corners of the Altar. Slowly it took on the form of a man. Auraya heard Juran take in a breath and the others make small noises of surprise.

“Chaia,” Juran said, beginning to rise.

:Stay, Chaia said, raising a hand to halt Juran’s movement.

Auraya felt the world around her vibrating with the arrival of the rest of the gods. She watched in awe as each became visible as a light that took on human form.

:We have called you here to tell you the result of our search, Chaia told them. He turned to regard Huan.

:We searched throughout Southern and Northern Ithania, Huan said, but did not encounter other gods.

:That does not mean they do not exist, Lore warned. They may have evaded us. They may exist beyond those territories.

:We will continue our search, Yranna assured them, smiling. But it is best you do not leave Ithania all at once.

:That would leave you unprotected, should these gods exist and seek to do you harm, Saru added.

Juran nodded. “Is there anything we can do to help?”

:No, Chaia replied. I do not expect a confrontation with the Pentadrians for now.

“We understand,” Juran replied.

Chaia glanced at his fellow gods again, then nodded.

:That is all. We will speak to you again when we have more answers.

The five glowing figures vanished.

But they did not fade from Auraya’s senses. She felt Huan, Lore, Yranna and Saru drift away. When they had gone she felt the lightest touch of Chaia’s mind before he, too, moved away.

“Auraya?”

She jumped and found Juran staring at her. “What is it?” he asked.

“The gods. I felt them arrive and leave.”

His eyebrows rose. “Felt them?”

“Yes. It was... strange.”

“Has this happened before?” Dyara asked.

Auraya shook her head. “It is a bit like this sense I have of my position in relation to the world. I can sense the magic around me.”

“And the gods are beings of magic,” Mairae said, nodding.

“Yes.”

The points of the Altar were hinging down toward the ground, but none of the others had begun to rise. Juran looked thoughtful and Dyara skeptical. Rian was scowling. As Auraya met his eyes his frown disappeared and he smiled - but it was forced.

“I am starting to expect these strange developments of yours, Auraya,” Juran said. He chuckled. “As soon as you work out what this one means, let me know. For now,” he glanced at each of the others, then stood up, “I suggest we return to our duties.”

Auraya rose with the others, but hung back as they filed down the Altar points to the dome floor. She glanced back and concentrated, but sensed nothing disturbing the magic within the Altar.

There were small fluctuations in the distribution of it around her, however. Turning away, she kept her mind on the magic around her as she followed her fellow White back to the Tower. She noticed that the variations in magic were more pronounced at its base. Dyara and Juran began discussing Genrian politics, but Auraya was too engrossed in what she was sensing to pay any attention.

They reached the Tower and moved inside. The fluctuations did not lessen or grow stronger, and she was about to bring her attention back to her companions when she sensed a sudden change.

They had reached the cage at the center of the hall. In this place magic was considerably diminished. She would not have noticed it, even if she had drawn magic to herself, as there was enough about to make most Gifts possible.

But it was definitely spread a little thin.

What caused this? she wondered. Did someone use up most of the magic here or is it a natural occurrence?

She opened her mouth to tell Juran, but caught Rian watching her. He gave her another forced smile.

I’ll tell Juran another time, she thought. In private.

Two giant elongated bowls bobbed in the water. They were made of wood, and it looked like tree trunks had been stripped of their branches and bark and set upright within the bowls. From the trunks hung a multitude of ropes, more beams of wood and what looked like large bundles of cloth.

“They’re ships, aren’t they?” Imi asked. “Father described them to me.”

Rissi gave her an odd look. “Boats. You’ve never seen boats or ships before, have you?”

“No.”

“If that’s where the sea bells are then the landwalkers have got to them first,” Rissi said, his disappointment obvious.

“That depends.”

“On what?” He turned to frown at her.

“If they’ve got them all yet. They wouldn’t still be here if they had, would they?”

Rissi looked thoughtful, but then he frowned and shook his head. “What are you saying? We sneak up and take a few? What if they see us? They’ll kill us.”

“Then we make sure they don’t see us.”

“But—”

She ducked under the surface and swam toward a rock that was closer to the boats. Coming up behind it, she carefully peered around at the landwalkers.

They were easier to see now. She watched them walking back and forth on what must be a flat floor just inside the bowl part of the boat. Ropes hung into the water.

She saw movement in the water - a landwalker’s head. He floated beside the boat and she heard a distant guttural voice. One of the landwalkers in the boat reached down. The swimmer held up a bag, which the other man hauled up to the deck. The light brown skin of the diver’s back disappeared as he dove beneath the water.

Rissi surfaced beside her.

“The sea bells must be there,” she told him. “They’re diving for them.”

“Which means we can’t sneak up on them,” he told her.

“Not now,” she said. “But they’ve got to stop some time. I’ve heard landwalkers can’t spend long in the water, or their skin goes bad.”

The landwalker’s head reappeared. He floated only a moment before diving again.

“They can’t hold their breath long, either,” Rissi murmured. “Although we can’t stay here long. It’ll take us hours to get back and I don’t want to swim in the dark.”

“The dark... we could wait until night then sneak up while they’re asleep,” Imi said, speaking her thoughts aloud.

“No! I’m in enough trouble already! If I’m not back by tonight my father won’t take me out with him ever again.”

She looked at Rissi, but decided taunting him about being scared of punishment wouldn’t change his mind. He was beyond bravado now.

Turning to regard the boat, she saw the swimmer climb wearily out of the water and another dive in to replace him. They were diving in shifts. There was no chance they’d take a rest and give her an opportunity to sneak in and take a few sea bells.

A splash near the boat drew the landwalkers’ attention. One pointed, and Imi saw a large arrow bird surface, a fish struggling in its beak. The bird tossed down its catch, then launched itself back into the air.

“A distraction,” she said. “We need to distract them.”

Rissi frowned. “How?”

“I don’t know. Got any ideas?”

He looked at the boats. “Do you think they’ve seen Elai before?”

“Probably not.”

“You could distract them while I get the sea bells.”

“Me? No. This was my idea. You distract them while I get the sea bells.”

“That’s not fair. What if they’ve got...”

“What?”

“Spears or something.”

She gave him a measured look. “So it’s better that they spear me than you?”

He grimaced. “I didn’t mean that. But it is a danger.”

“Then... we give them something else to aim at. I know! I just thought of it. Something that will not only get them to look, but make the divers get out of the water too.”

“What?”

“A flarke.”

He paled at the mention of the fierce sea predator. “How are we going to find one of them and persuade it to eat them and not us?”

She laughed. “We don’t have to. I’ve seen the singers’ flarke costumes up close. They’re made from spikemat spines. We’ll find a big one and break off a few spines. Then we’ll tie them to your back. You swim around like a flarke - far enough away that their arrows can’t reach you. The landwalkers will be too scared to get into the water.”

He was silent and she could tell that he was impressed. After a moment he gave her a big grin.

“Yes. That would be fun.”

“Let’s find us some spikemat fish,” she said, and, not waiting to see if he followed, dove under the water.

Spikemat fish were common in every reef. It took them moments to find one with spines as big as a flarke’s. Breaking them off was not easy, and she felt sorry for the creature as it slowly crawled away from them, bleeding from where they had ripped out the spines. The spines would grow back eventually, however.

She had expected that attaching the spines to Rissi’s back would be the hard part, but he solved the problem by cutting himself a strip of wide leathery sea grass and making it into a vest shape. He drilled holes through the base of each spine with his knife, then pushed the spines through the back of the vest and secured them with another thinner spine threaded through the holes.

Out of sight of the boats, Rissi practiced swimming up and diving down again so that only the spines broke the surface.

“You’re kicking your feet up out of the water,” Imi told him.

“If I keep them together, it’ll look like a tail fin,” he replied, grinning.

“Flarke fins go sideways, not up and down.”

His face fell. “Oh. Yes. That’s right. I’ll keep my feet down then.”

“Are you ready?”

He shrugged. “Are you?”

She nodded. “Yes!”

“Let’s go then - and be quick. Who knows how long they’ll believe this for.”

They swam back to the boulder and watched the landwalkers long enough to be sure they knew where each was. She looked at Rissi expectantly. He stared back at her, then nodded. Without a word, he sank under the water.

Her heartbeat began to quicken as she watched for him surfacing again. When the spines finally rose out of the water she held her breath and looked to see if the landwalkers had noticed.

They were all hard at work.

The spines broke the surface again, but still the landwalkers didn’t notice. Rissi moved back and forth, sometimes slowly, sometimes diving under the surface abruptly. Imi realized he had probably seen a flarke before and was mimicking its behavior.

A shout drew her attention back to the landwalkers. They had finally noticed the spines. She grinned as they stopped working and milled anxiously about in the boat. One pounded on the outside of the boat with a hard object. She could hear the dull sound of it. A head appeared beside the boat and she felt a surge of triumph as the swimmer hastily climbed aboard.

My turn, she thought.

Taking a deep breath, she dove under and swam hard in the direction of the boats. Her heart was pounding with excitement, fear and exertion by the time she saw the elongated shadows above her.

Looking down, she almost let her breath out in amazement.

Her father had once taken her outside the city to show her a forest. She had looked up into a tangle of branches and leaves. It was a sight she had never forgotten. Now, gazing down at the branches of the sea-bell plants swaying gently in the sea current, she knew what it was like to look down on a forest from above.

It was also like looking at the night sky. Growing from every twig and stem were faint pinpoints of light. Swimming closer, she realized that these were the sea bells. Each was filled with tiny grains of brightness.

She hadn’t known that they glowed. As she reached the swaying strands and their burdens of light, she stretched out and touched one. It was surprisingly soft - nothing like the hard translucent bells she had seen before. She took the knife Rissi had loaned her and carefully cut through the stem.

As soon as the bell was severed from the stem, the light died. She felt a pang of guilt and sadness. It seemed a shame to disturb the plants. They were so pretty.

She then thought of her father and all that she had gone through to get here. She began cutting more bells. While Rissi had been making his flarke costume she had made a rough bag out of another leaf of sea grass curled into a cone and pinned with short lengths of spine. She put the bells in this.

A splash above her drew her attention upward. She saw a silhouette of a landwalker and her heart stopped.

The diver’s back!

She held the bag closed with one hand and dashed away.

They must have worked out they were being tricked! Or maybe the costume started falling apart. Or—

Something pressed into her face. It slid across her skin, enveloping her before she could react. Rope. Fine rope woven into a net. She threw out her arms but felt the net curl around them.

Don’t panic! she told herself. Now that she was caught she was conscious of the growing need for air. She had heard stories of Elai that had drowned, tangled in landwalkers’ nets, but also others of how people had freed themselves. She knew if she thrashed about, she’d only become more tangled. I must stay calm and work my way free.

Looking at the net, she saw that the spaces in the weave were wide enough that most fish could swim through. It extended to either side in a curve that suggested it surrounded the sea-bell plants. What that implied set her heart racing again. Had these landwalkers put it there to keep off predators, or Elai?

She did not want to find out. In one hand she held the bag of sea bells. In the other she held Rissi’s knife. She needed both hands to cut through the net. Holding the bag in her mouth, she sawed at the net until she had made a hole big enough for the bag. She pushed it through and let it go. It slowly sank to the sandy bottom.

Now she began to cut her arms free. Just as she had released one arm, she felt a tug through the net.

She looked up, her heart sinking with dread as she saw the net was slowly moving upward.

Not yet! she thought, as she set to sawing at the weave frantically. Another tug came and she felt the strands tighten around her. She slashed at them. An easing in water pressure told her she was moving upward. She realized more of her was outside the net than in it. Yet still the tangle of it around her legs pulled her upward, feet first. She saw the surface rapidly approaching. Felt the looming hulk of the boat nearby. Heard voices.

She felt a surge of panic and hacked at the net. Something caught the blade and it slipped from her grasp. She twisted and grabbed for it, but her fingers closed on water. Sunlight flashed on the blade once before it sank out of sight.

The net tightened on her legs as she was hauled upward.

No! She shrieked into the water and twisted about to claw at her legs, but the next pull lifted her into air. She gasped in a fresh lungful then tried to reach up to her ankles again. Free of the buoyancy of the water, she didn’t have the strength to reach them. She heard voices above her. Angry voices. One of them barked a word.

Then hands were clawing and pulling at her. She struggled and struck out, shrieking in terror. The hard edge of the boat rolled under her, then she fell onto a flat surface.

The hands left her. She stopped shrieking and stared up at her captors, panting with fear. They stared back at her, their pale, wrinkled faces twisted with disgust.

Words passed between them. One narrowed his eyes at her, then barked at the others. They eyed him with sullen respect, then all but one moved away.

She guessed the barker was the leader. He began to talk with the one who’d stayed. Imi turned her attention to the net still tangled around her ankles. The rope had drawn painfully tight. If she could free herself, she had only to spring up and leap over the side of the boat to get away.

But the rope would not loosen. She felt a shadow fall over her and realized the leader was bending down. Seeing the knife in his hand, she shrank away, sure that he was going to kill her. She heard herself whimpering with fear.

The knife moved to her ankles. With a few careful cuts he freed her.

He was going to let her go. She felt a surge of relief and found herself thanking the man. He looked at the second man, who smiled.

It was not a friendly smile. Imi felt her stomach twist. The leader barked again, and one of the other men tossed him a short length of rope. As he moved toward her ankle again she realized what he was going to do. Relief evaporated and she tried to leap up, but his hand closed around her leg firmly. The second man grabbed her shoulders, shoved her down onto her back and held her there. She shrieked again, and kept shrieking as the leader tied her ankles together. They rolled her onto her front in order to tie her hands together behind her, then dragged her to the center of the boat where they tied her hands to a metal ring.

“What are you doing?” Imi cried desperately, struggling into a sitting position. “Why won’t you let me go free?”

The two men exchanged glances, then turned and walked away.

“You can’t hold me here. I’m... I’m the Elai king’s daughter,” she declared, feeling anger growing. “My father will send warriors to kill you!”

None of the landwalkers paid any attention. They did not know what she was telling them. They did not understand her words any more than she understood theirs. How could she tell them who she was?

One of the landwalkers nearby upended a bag. Its contents spilled out. She stared at the green mess, and as the men set to plucking small objects out of the tangle she realized that the limp strands she was looking at were the fragile branches and roots of the sea-bell plant.

The landwalkers had ripped the plants out of the sandy floor of the sea.

She felt a wave of nausea at the thought of what they’d done. There would be no crop of bells next year for this plant. They had killed the plant outright in their haste to harvest them.

How can they be so wasteful? she thought. And so stupid! If they left the plants intact, they could come back next year and gather more bells.

Her father was right. Landwalkers were horrible. She twisted her hands about, but there was no way she was going to be able to get to the knot to untie it.

Rissi, she thought. He’s got to tell father where I am. She struggled to her feet and searched the water. After an eternity she thought she saw something move. A head, perhaps.

“Rissi!” she screamed. “Tell father where I am. Tell him I’m a prisoner. Tell him to come—”

Something struck her face. She staggered to her knees, her face aflame. The leader was standing over her. He barked out a few words, pointing at her with his long, web-less fingers.

Though she could not understand a word, the warning was clear. Stunned, Imi watched him walk away.

Father will come, she told herself. He’ll save me. When he does, he’ll spear every one of these horrible landwalkers, and they’ll deserve it.

14

It was pleasantly warm outside the cave, now that the late summer sun had set. The sky was free of cloud, and the stars were a dense carpet above. Emerahl sighed with appreciation.

“That’s better,” Mirar murmured.

They had decided the rock wall was the most comfortable place to sit two nights ago, when Mirar had first ventured outside. Though she hadn’t caught a hint of Mirar’s thoughts for many days now, he wasn’t invisible to physical eyes so he only emerged at night. The Siyee thought she was alone and she did not want them to find out otherwise until she and Mirar had decided what they wanted to do next.

There was little to do at night but admire the stars and talk. She heard Mirar draw in a breath to speak.

“I’ve been thinking about the other Wilds today. It is possible some are still alive.”

She turned to look at him. His face was faintly lit by starlight. “I’ve been thinking about them, too. I’ve been asking myself whether it would be better or worse for us if we found them.”

“Worse if it leads to the gods discovering our existence.”

“How would they?” She paused. “Do you think the others would betray us?”

“They may not mean to. The gods may read their minds.”

Emerahl smiled crookedly. “If their minds were readable, the gods would have found and killed them long ago,” she pointed out.

Mirar shifted his position. “Yes. Probably.”

She looked up at the stars. “Still, the others might need our help.”

“I’m sure if they’ve survived this long they don’t need our help.”

“Oh? Like you didn’t need my help?”

He chuckled. “But I’m just a young fool a mere thousand years old. The other Wilds are older and wiser.”

“Then they might be able to help us,” she replied.

“How?”

“If I was able to teach you to hide your mind, imagine what they might be able to teach us. Perhaps nothing, but we can’t know that until we find them.”

“You want me to come with you on this search?”

Emerahl sighed. “I’d like you to, but I don’t think it would be wise. If you are right about ordinary priests not being able to read minds...”

“And I am.”

“... then I will be safe enough, unless I have a moment of exceptionally bad luck and bump into the priest with the mind-reading ability who was looking for me before.”

“While there are far more people who might recognize Leiard,” he finished.

“Yes.”

“If the gods are looking for me, they may have instructed priests and priestesses to call for them if they see me. Dreamweavers are probably also watching for me. The gods could be watching their minds, too.” He groaned. “There are so many people who could recognize me. Why did Leiard agree to become Dreamweaver Adviser to the White?”

“I’m sure he thought it was for the best.”

“Dealing with the gods never turns out for the best.” He sighed. “How long am I going to have to hide for? Am I going to have to stay in this cave until no one is left alive who might recognize me?”

“If you did, you’d never leave. Unless you plan to have someone assassinate the White.”

“Is that an offer?”

She smiled. “No. You are going to have to do what I did - become a hermit. Avoid all but the most ordinary, unimportant people.”

“So if I stay here for a lifetime I’ll only have the White to worry about.”

“If you want to avoid all people you can’t stay here. I told the Siyee I would return home now I knew the war was over,” she said. “They will keep coming back to check if I am still here.”

“Do you know of any other hiding places?”

“A few. I don’t think you can or should avoid other humans completely, however. You need people about or the rift in your identity might widen again.”

“I have you.”

She smiled. “Indeed you have. But I am a person who Mirar relates to strongly. I may be inhibiting your ability to accept Leiard. You need to interact with people who have no prior relationship with you. These Siyee will do you no harm. You said you hadn’t met any of them.”

“Who will I tell them I am? I can’t tell them I am Mirar.”

“No. You will have to pretend to be someone else again.”

“Leiard?”

“No,” she said firmly. “Give yourself a new name and appearance, but don’t invent new habits or personality traits to go with them. Be yourself.”

“What name should I use, then?”

She shrugged. “I wouldn’t choose a name you dislike.”

He chuckled. “Of course not.” She heard him drumming his fingers. “I’m still a Dreamweaver, so I’ll name myself after one. On the journey to the battle I met a young man not unlike myself. Opinionated and smart. His name was Wil.”

“Wil? Isn’t that a Dunwayan name? You don’t look Dunwayan.”

“No. I’ll add a syllable, then.”

She chuckled. “How about Wily? Or Willful?”

He sighed. “In a thousand years your sense of humor hasn’t improved much, Emerahl.”

“I could have suggested Wilted.”

He made a low, disapproving noise. “I will call myself Wilar.”

Emerahl nodded. “Wilar, then. Wilar what?”

“Shoemaker.” He lifted one foot. The sandals he had made were just visible in the faint light.

“Useful skill, that one,” she said.

“Yes. Leiard did learn some new ones for me. I never needed to make my own before then. People were always happy to give them to me.”

“Ah, the good old days,” she said mockingly. “How we miss the unending adoration and generosity of our followers.”

He laughed. “Except it wasn’t unending.”

“No. And I don’t miss it.”

They were silent for a long time. Mirar finally stirred, and she braced herself in preparation to stand up. But instead of suggesting they go back inside, he only turned to regard her.

“You are going to leave, aren’t you?”

She looked at him, and felt pulled in two directions. “I do want to find the other Wilds,” she said. “But it can wait. If you need me to stay, I will.”

He reached out and touched her face. “I want you to stay,” he told her. “But... you’re right about your effect on me. You’re an anchor that I’m afraid to let go of. I should do as you suggest and seek out other people.”

She took his hand and closed hers around it. “I can stay a little longer. There is no hurry.”

“No, there isn’t. Except I feel restless already. I think I’ll soon become unbearable to be around if I don’t find something to do. I’d come with you if I could. I wish you had a plan in mind that I could assist with, but I’m glad you’re trying to find them.” He paused. “We must stay in contact.”

“Yes.” As she said it, she felt her wish to find the Wilds harden into determination. “We will dream link. I can tell you how my search is going.”

“And keep an eye on me?”

She laughed. “Definitely.”

He drew his hand away and leaned back on the rock wall again. His head tilted as he looked up at the stars.

“So beautiful,” he said. “Will you change your appearance again?”

She considered. Being good-looking gave one an advantage when gathering information, but being beautiful - and young - usually proved a hindrance when travelling. People tended to notice and remember beautiful women. They asked too many questions or, if then, tried to seduce her.

“Yes. I’ll add about ten or twenty years I think.”

He murmured something. She caught the words “missed out” and smiled. It was nice to know he was still attracted to her. Perhaps once he had accepted Leiard and become whole again there would be another opportunity for a dalliance.

She smiled. The sooner I leave, the sooner he’ll sort himself out and the sooner we can explore those possibilities. If I have doubts about going, I’ll just remind myself of that. Still smiling, she rose and headed back into the cave to start preparing for the long process of changing her age.

Imenja poured another glass of water, then topped Reivan’s glass up.

“One more to go,” she murmured. “It’ll be over soon.”

Reivan nodded and tried not to look too relieved. When she had first entered the room and realized that she would be included in the final stage of an event as momentous as the election of the First Voice she had been dizzy with awe and amazement.

She had watched in fascination as each of the Voices closed their eyes, communicated with Head Servants in regions all over Ithania, and spoke aloud the tally of votes for each Dedicated Servant. The Companion for each Voice had marked the tally on a huge sheet of parchment. When Imenja had indicated that Reivan should do the same for her, she had been overwhelmed. As she’d taken up the brush her hands had been shaking with excitement.

At the end of an hour the endless repetition of the tallying had turned fascination to boredom. After two hours she was dismayed to find they had collected tallies for only a sixth of the regions on the parchment. It was going to be a long day.

Domestics brought an endless variety of delicacies and drinks as if to make up for the monotony of the day. All conversation was undertaken in quiet murmurs, so as to avoid distracting whichever Voice was collecting information.

“That is all,” Vervel said. “All votes are cast. Will you do the first count, Imenja?”

The Second Voice rose and moved to the sheet of parchment. She ran her finger down the first column slowly, her lips moving as she added up the numbers. When she reached the end of the column she took the brush and inked in a total, then she started counting the next column of numbers.

This was also a slow process, but Reivan felt a growing anticipation. When Imenja was done, they would know who was to be their new leader. She glanced at the Companions. They, too, were watching with rapt expressions.

Imenja’s finger made a soft scraping sound as it moved down the parchment. Each time she paused to ink in the result Reivan studied her face. Reivan had memorized the order of the names and knew which Dedicated Servant her mistress was counting the tallies of. She also knew from the tallies she had written down which candidates were most favored. But when Imenja’s eyebrows rose at one result, and frowned at another, Reivan could not guess whether her mistress was pleased, dismayed or merely surprised.

When Imenja had finished, she straightened and looked at Vervel. He returned her gaze, then shrugged. Karkel, Vervel’s Companion, half rose out of his chair, but sat down again as Vervel looked at him and shook his head.

So they’re not going to tell us now, Reivan thought. Will they tell us when the others have confirmed the count? Or will we have to wait until they make the public announcement?

Vervel now began to count the votes. Unable to stand the suspense, Reivan looked away. A plate of nuts and dried fruit lay on the table beside her. She began to eat, though she was far from hungry. The plate was half-empty by the time Shar announced his count finished. Imenja rolled the parchment up then smiled at the four Companions.

“Let’s go and give one Dedicated Servant some good news and a lot of people something to celebrate.”

The Companions stood. Reivan noted the expressions of resignation on their faces. So we have to wait like everyone else, she thought, smiling to herself. So much for being Imenja’s favored pet.

They followed the Voices out of the room. Two domestics approaching the door with trays of food paused and bowed their heads as the small parade of importance passed. Looking back, Reivan saw them exchange meaningful looks, then hurry away.

Soon she was noting other domestics and .a few Servants peering around corners or doors at them. She caught excited whispers and running footsteps. A feeling of growing expectation began to fill the Sanctuary. Distant shouts and calls could be heard, muffled behind walls or doors. A bell rang somewhere, then others. The Voices left the intimate passages of the Upper Sanctuary and started down the main corridor of the Middle Sanctuary. Reivan could see Servants ahead hurrying to join those waiting to hear the announcement. Others formed a small crowd that followed at a discreet distance.

The corridor of the Middle Sanctuary ended at a large courtyard. Imenja and the other Voices strode across this, the Companions following, and entered an airy hall. A crowd of black robes filled the room. Reivan recognized the faces of many Dedicated Servants. She wondered how long they had been waiting here.

The sound of chatter died and all heads turned toward the Voices, but the Pentadrian leaders did not stop. They crossed the hall and emerged at the top of the Main Stairs. As they appeared a roar of voices greeted them. The people of Glymma, and those who had travelled here to witness the election of the new First Voice, formed a great mass of upturned faces and waving arms.

The four Voices formed a line. Standing behind them, Reivan could not see their expressions. She closed her eyes and let the great sound of the cheering crowd wash over her.

“Fellow Pentadrians,” Imenja called, her voice rising above the noise.

The cheering dwindled reluctantly. Looking past Imenja, Reivan saw many overly bright eyes in the crowd, and bottles and mugs clutched in several hands. She chuckled quietly to herself.

It was a long wait. I guess they had to entertain themselves somehow.

“Fellow Pentadrians,” Imenja repeated. “We have gathered the votes of Servants from all over the world. The day has been long, but this was too important a task to be hurried. The tally has been counted.” She held up the impressively long roll of parchment. “We have a new First Voice!”

The crowd cheered again.

“Come forward, Dedicated Servants of the Gods!”

From the hall behind, men and women filed down the stairs. They began to form a long line across the bottom, turning to look up at the Voices.

One of these people has convinced most of the Servants of the Gods that he or she will be a good leader, Reivan thought. She considered all the histories she’d read, of philosophical discussions on the qualities of a good leader. Do any of these candidates have the right qualities? What if none of them have? Would the gods intervene? She frowned. That would be quite a slap in the face. It would imply that most Servants didn’t know how to choose a good leader.

Perhaps they don’t. She suddenly felt uneasy. How would they have chosen? She considered what she would have done, if she had been a Servant living far from Glymma. I guess I’d have dismissed anyone who’s caused trouble or made big mistakes. It would help if one of these people had proven his or herself capable of leading and making good decisions already. I think I’d prefer someone who’d fought in the war to one who hadn’t, but ultimately

I’d have to take a gamble, based on the information I had. I wouldn’t choose anyone I didn’t like. Nobody’s going to vote for someone they dislike.

The last of the Dedicated Servants joined the line. Imenja held up the roll of parchment. She waited until all was silent - or as quiet as a half-drunk crowd could manage. Then she let the parchment unroll.

“The Servants of the Gods have chosen Dedicated Servant Nekaun as the new First Voice. Come forward, Nekaun.”

As the crowd erupted in cheering again, Reivan felt her heart lift. She thought back to the man who had offered both congratulations and advice at her ordination, and smiled.

Oh, good, she thought.

Peering past Imenja’s shoulder, she watched Nekaun step forward. He looked composed and calm, but his eyes burned with excitement. I would have chosen him, she thought. He’s never made any great mistakes, has run the Temple of Hrun for a few years as well as fought in the war. He’s likeable and kind. And to top it off, he’s good-looking. That’s got to be an advantage in a leader.‘ What more could the gods want? She watched in admiration as he stopped a few steps before Imenja and made the sign of the star.

Imenja handed the parchment to Genza, who began to slowly roll it up again. From within her robe Imenja produced a star pendant. She held it up. The crowd slowly quietened.

“Accept this symbol of the gods,” she said, “and you accept an eternity of servitude to them and to their people. You will become the Voice with which they speak to mortals. You will become the Hand that toils for our benefit, and strikes down our enemies.”

He slowly reached out to take the chain, then bowed his head.

“I accept the burden and the responsibility,” he said.

He closed his eyes and draped the chain around his neck. Reivan saw him stiffen and an expression of wonder crossed his face. He straightened, looked up at Imenja and smiled.

“And the gods have accepted me.”

“Then take your place among us,” Imenja finished.

Still smiling, he stepped up beside her and turned to face the crowd. Imenja gestured toward him, while regarding the crowd.

“People of Glymma and beyond. Do you welcome Nekaun, First Voice of the Gods?”

The crowd responded with a roar of approval. Imenja turned her head to regard him. “Will you address the people?”

“I will.” He paused and waited until all was quiet. “My people. As I stand here before you I feel both joy and sadness. Joy that I have been gifted with the greatest opportunity to serve the gods that a man or woman may be given. Sadness that I take the place of a man I admired.

“I willingly take on the same responsibilities that he bore, because our aims are the same. We must rid the world of the heathen Circlians. But do not fear that I will lead you into another war. That has been tried, and through ill chance or the will of the gods it failed.

“I see another way to achieve our goal. We must show them their mistake and lead them to the true gods. We must draw them to our side gently, through persuasion and reason. For I believe truth and understanding are powerful forces, and they are forces we have in our favor. Using them, we cannot fail.” He raised his arms. “With them, we will conquer Northern Ithania!”

It’s not the torch to the oil of glorious war that Kuar’s kill-and-take speech was, Reivan mused. The crowd roared anyway, fired up by the excitement of this momentous event, as well as drink and perhaps relief that there would not be another war for now.

As Imenja addressed the crowd again, Reivan considered Nekaun’s goal. So he wants to convert the Circlians, she thought. I wonder how he plans to do that? Will he send Servants into Northern Ithania to woo the people there? I can’t imagine they’ll be given a warm welcome.

Imenja finished. Nekaun glanced at her, then began to lead the Voices back to the hall. Reivan and the Companions followed. As they moved indoors, Servants crowded around, offering congratulations to their new leader. Reivan wondered how many of them had realized what Nekaun’s plan might mean for them. Travelling into Northern Ithania to convert Circlians might prove to be more dangerous than marching to war.

I don’t envy them that task, she thought. Abruptly she realized she was not disqualified from it. But shouldn’t I want to go? Shouldn’t I be willing to do anything for the gods?

I’m unskilled and only a Servant-novice. I’m of more use here, serving Imenja.

Yet she might not have any choice in the matter. What if Nekaun asked her to go? What if she ended up in a situation where he wanted her out of the way? She could see no reason for that now, but this was the world of politics and favor. Anything could change.

Then there’s only one thing I can do, she decided. Make sure I give him no reason to want me gone.

15

The cave was dark when Mirar woke. Only a faint light was visible at the entrance. Emerahl usually woke earlier than he did and ventured outside to empty the buckets and bring in fresh water. He could not hear her breathing, so he guessed she had gone. Creating a spark of light, he strengthened it until the whole cave was illuminated.

Emerahl was still in bed.

At once he remembered. She was in the process of changing her age. He got up and moved over to her bed.

He could only see her face, but it showed subtle signs of change. Skin that had been fresh and firm with youth now hung slightly looser on her cheekbones. The faintest lines had formed around her eyes and mouth. Strands of hair had fallen out, forming a golden coating on the rough mattress she had made.

He picked up a few strands. There were stripes of variation along the first hand span of its length. Successive dying, he guessed. Weaker each time. Why would she have dyed her hair?

She said she had been an old woman before this, Leiard reminded him. Her hair could have been white. It must have stayed that way, despite the rest of her body changing to a more youthful form, but from then on it grew in her natural color.

Yes, Mirar agreed. He looked at the strand. She must have dyed the white, first with cheap pigment then with better dye that that brothel provided.

The brothel. He sighed and shook his head. She was so Gifted. Why must she resort to selling herself whenever she needed to hide?

Because she had no choice, Leiard said.

Of course she had a choice. Mirar scowled. She could have become a washer-woman or a fish-sealer.

The priests would have looked over all women’s trades that an old crone might take up. By practicing a trade only young women could practice she could be sure she would never be examined by a priest.

It made sense, but Mirar didn’t like it. The risk of discovery must have been small. Only one priest had been given the ability to read minds by the gods.

She didn’t know that, Leiard reminded him.

Mirar almost wished he hadn’t told her that the gods did not make a habit of giving priests that Gift. Now that Emerahl knew she was safe she wanted to roam about the world in search of other Wilds. He looked at her and felt a stab of concern.

I should go with her, he thought.

You can’t, Leiard pointed out. There’s a greater risk that I’ll be recognized than her. I’d only put us all in danger.

Mirar nodded in agreement. Even in sleep there was a strength in her expression. Or perhaps he only imagined that. She’ll be fine. I doubt she’s suddenly become a risk-taker, he told himself. No, she’ll be as cautious as she has always been. He sighed and looked away. And me? I’m supposed to seek out people in order to cure myself. How foolish is that?

Perhaps not overly foolish. He would seek out the Siyee - or most likely linger here until they found him.

What excuse will I give them for coming here? he asked himself. Why would a Dreamweaver come to Si?

To offer healing services, of course, Leiard replied.

Healing was what he had always done best. Even as a child he’d had an unusual understanding of healing. Years of study and work had refined the Gift. Each time he had thought he had reached the limits of his powers something caused him to stretch himself further and he discovered he could do more. One day it had all culminated in a sudden flash of understanding in which he comprehended how his body might be sustained in a healthy, youthful state indefinitely.

It had been the moment he had achieved immortality. Emerahl, too, had come to the same understanding. She did not have the intuitive aptitude with healing that he had. Instead, her innate Gift was this ability to change her age.

And the other Wilds? He thought of the extraordinary people who had once roamed free in the world. The Farmer had been famous for his understanding of growing and raising crops, stock and all manner of produce. His innate Gift had probably related to that somehow. The Seer’s ability had been to predict a person’s probable path in life, though she had admitted to Mirar once that she did not see the future, she just saw the nature of mortals too well.

The Gull had understood everything to do with the sea. He could find shoals of fish, warn against storms and was rumored to be able to change the weather to a limited degree. The Twins... Mirar had never been entirely sure what their abilities were. He had never met them, but someone had once told him they understood the duality of everything in the world, that they perceived connections and balances where nobody else could.

Where the magic was in that talent, he didn’t know. Most likely he would never find out. They had probably been killed a century ago, when the Circle of Gods had decided to tidy up their new world.

The gods are probably the only beings that know, he thought.

You could ask them, Leiard suggested.

He chuckled. Even if calling on them wasn’t likely to result in our death, I doubt we could trust their answer.

He looked at Emerahl again. She hadn’t moved while he’d been watching her, except to breathe. The rise and fall of her chest was so slow he had to watch patiently to see the change.

I’ll miss her. He frowned, surprised at the wistful emotion that came with the thought. It was not that he didn’t expect to feel this way, just that it was stronger than he had anticipated.

You didn’t feel like this about her before? Leiard asked. Do you love her?

Mirar considered. He felt affection and concern. He would not like her to be harmed or feel pain. He enjoyed her company, had always enjoyed her physical company the few times they had been lovers - but he was still sure he did not feel anything like romantic love. Emerahl was a friend.

Yes. You have missed the company of an equal.

Perhaps I have, he conceded.

Looking away, he considered the cave. He was hungry. She had told him there was enough food to last him for the few days she would be changing. It was mostly nuts, fresh and dried fruit, some dried meat and a few tubers.

Hardly inspiring fare, he thought. He glanced at the cave entrance, thinking of the shrimmi she had caught and cooked once before. I think it’s time I saw a little daylight. If the Siyee fly past and see me, so be it. I doubt they’ll be any danger to Emerahl. To be sure I’ll tell them she has already left. I don’t think I need to stay in here every moment of the next few days. Perhaps I can find her something decent to eat when she wakes up.

Picking up the bucket she had used when collecting food, he started toward the tunnel and daylight.

Erra considered the strange child curled up on the deck. She was completely hairless as far as he could see. Between the fingers and toes of her enormous hands and feet was a thick webbing. Her skin was unnaturally dark - a bluish black. It had been glossy yesterday, but now it looked dull.

“She bring trouble,” Kanyer warned. “She child. Adults come for her. Slit our throats in our sleep.”

“That’s what you said last night,” Erra replied. “No one came.”

“Why you keep her?”

“A hunch. My da used to say you can find something useful in everything that comes out of the sea.”

“How she useful? You think sea folk trade for her?”

“Maybe. I have another idea. Silse said he saw her taking the bells. Said she must have been there for a while.”

Kanyer looked at the girl with interest. “It true they breathe water then.”

Erra shook his head. “Nah. She hasn’t got gills. See the size of her chest. Big lungs. Prob’ly means she can hold her breath a long time.” He rubbed his stubbly chin. “That’d be useful to us.”

“You want her get bells for us?”

“Yes.”

“She won’t.”

“She will if we give her a reason.”

Erra strode across to the girl and cut the ropes around her ankles. She didn’t wake up so he nudged her with his foot. Her whole body jerked as she came awake and she turned her head to stare up at him. Her lips were cracked and the film across her eyes was red. He guessed that being out of the water was doing her harm and felt a small pang of guilt. Well, she shouldn’t have tried to steal my bells.

He reached over to the lamp ring and untied the end of the rope that tethered her.

“Get up.”

She moved slowly, her expression wary and sullen.

“Come over here.”

He tugged her to the baskets of sea bells and waved to the last empty one. He indicated the level of the full one next to it, then held his hand over the empty basket at the same place. She watched him intently. He pointed at her, then at the sea, then indicated the full level of the empty basket again. Finally he pointed to the ropes and made a cutting motion, then pointed to her and then waved out at the sea.

She glared at him, obviously understanding but not liking what he was proposing. Nevertheless, she did not resist as he tugged her over to the side of the boat. The crew watched, still chewing on their morning meal.

He turned her around and untied the rope binding her wrists. Then he tied a long length of new, dry rope around her neck. It would swell when it got wet, and be impossible to untie. He nudged her and pointed at the water.

She stared at him resentfully for a moment, then jumped into the water. At once she began struggling with the rope.

“Silse,” Erra called.

The swimmer strolled over.

“Get in the water and keep an eye on her. If it looks like she’s going to get free, let me know. We’ll haul her back out.”

The man hesitated. Using the girl like this probably pricked the fool’s conscience. Or was he worried about losing his share of the profits?

“What are you waiting for?” Erra growled.

Silse shrugged, then jumped into the water. The girl’s struggles stopped. She looked at Silse floating nearby. After staring at him for a long time, she suddenly dove into the gloom, the rope running into the water after her.

Silse watched her. After a moment he raised his head out of the water.

“She’s doing it, but she’s cutting them one by one.”

“Let her,” one of the other crewmen said. “It’ll save us some work.”

Erra nodded. There’d be less trouble later, when it came to dividing the profits, if the others couldn’t claim Silse had done less work than them. He pointed to one of the bags the swimmers had used to haul up the sea-bell plants.

“Give me that.”

They tossed it to him. He dropped it into the water beside Silse.

“When she comes up again, give her that,” he told the swimmer. He sat down to wait.

She reappeared sooner than he expected, but her hands were overflowing with sea bells. Silse awkwardly began trying to explain to her about the bag’s use. She ignored him. Tipping the bells onto the deck, she grabbed the bag and disappeared into the depths again.

Silse looked up at Erra and shrugged.

The crew began to lounge about. A few started a game of counters. The girl came to the surface about three or four times to take another breath. Each time the bag was emptied into the basket and handed back.

After the fourth time, Erra decided his idea was working well. He may as well have a drink and enjoy himself. He looked for the youngest of his crew, Darm, and found the boy was at the top of the mast.

“Darm!” he bellowed.

The boy started. “Yes capt’n?”

“Get down here.”

The boy uncurled his thin legs from the mast and began to climb down. Erra reached into his pocket for some smokewood.

“Capt’n?”

Erra looked up. The boy had stopped halfway down the mast and was pointing toward the bluff at one side of the bay.

“Sails,” he said. “Someone’s coming.”

At once all the crew were on their feet. Erra moved toward the mast, determined to have a look himself, but he didn’t need to. The bow of a ship was now gliding into sight beyond the bluff.

It was a battered but sturdy trading vessel, larger than the fishing boats. Erra narrowed his eyes. He could just see men on board, lined up along the side. As the rest of the ship came in sight, the strangers all raised their arms and waved.

Erra felt his stomach drop. They were waving swords.

“Raiders!” Darm yelled.

Erra cursed. Even if the sails had been hoisted and they hadn’t been cornered in the bay, his boats could never have outrun the ship. They would have to abandon them - but perhaps not their hoard. He turned to the crew. They looked pale and ready to bolt.

“We’ve got to swim for shore!” one cried.

“No!” Erra bellowed. “Not yet. We’ve got a bit of time before they get here.” He pointed to the baskets of sea bells. “Bind them closed, tie on weights and throw them in. Then we’ll swim for it. Anyone who doesn’t help, doesn’t get a coin.”

A flurry of activity followed. With heart pounding, Erra grabbed anything that would do as a weight and roped it to the baskets. He bullied the crew with feigned confidence. Two baskets splashed into the water, then another. They sank into the depths.

“They’re coming fast!” Darm wailed. “We won’t make it to shore!”

Erra straightened to look. The ship was approaching quickly. He judged the distance they had to swim.

“Right. Leave the rest. They’ll want to feel they got something, or they’ll come after us for sport. Swim!”

Not waiting for the others to follow, he dove into the water. Fear lent him strength and speed. When he finally reached the sand he dragged himself upright and glanced back. The ship was bearing down on the boats. His crew were emerging from the water. He cursed then started running toward the forest.

Only later, when he stared down at the smoking hulls of the boats from a rocky bluff, did he remember the sea girl. Had she been smart enough to hide or escape, or had they found her? He sent Silse back to look, but the swimmer found no sign of her. Only the cut end of the rope.

The small pang of guilt Erra felt was easily brushed aside. He had more important things to worry about now.

Like how he was going to get off this island.

The leaden sky leeched everything of color - except the blood.

The faces of the corpses were white, the hair either black or a bleached non-color. The weapons, still clutched in stiffened hands or wedged in flesh, lacked shine. The circs of the priests were a dull white.

But the stains on them were luridly bright. Thick crimson oozed from wounds and slicked blades. Pools of it gathered under the dead like a morbid carpet. Trickles of it flowed down folds in the earth. It gathered to form streams. Pooled. Soaked into the soil, so that it bubbled to the surface at every step.

Auraya tried to walk gently, tried to keep to the dry areas, but the blood welled up to coat her sandalled feet. The sickening mud sucked at her feet. She took a few more steps then found she could not move. The mud clung to her shoes. It gave beneath her. She felt herself sinking into it. Leaning on one leg to try and free the other only sent her deeper. She felt the cold moisture creeping up her legs and her heart began to race.

“You killed us,” hissed a voice.

She looked up to see corpses raising their heads to stare at her with dead eyes.

Not now, she thought. I’ve got enough problems.

“You,” another said, his partly severed head lolling on the ground. “You did this to me.”

She tried not to hear the voices, concentrating instead on getting free of the mud, which did not want to let her go. Red bubbles and froth foamed the surface. She leaned forward, desperately trying to find something to grab hold of to stop herself sinking. Something to use to lever herself out.

I’m going to drown, she thought, and fear surged up within her. I’m going to suffocate, my mouth and lungs full of bloodied soil.

There was nothing but a sea of corpses reaching out to her with clawed hands. She shrank away, felt herself sink further, then forced herself to reach out to them.

“It’s your fault I’m dead,” a woman hissed.

“Your fault!”

“Yours!”

:No.

Everything stilled. The corpses froze in position. The sucking of the mud stopped. Auraya peered around in confusion. The corpses’ eyes swivelled about in search of the voice.

This doesn’t usually happen, she mused.

:It is not her fault you are dead. If you must blame someone, blame me. Either way, you are wrong. Neither Auraya nor I dealt the blow that killed you.

A shining figure appeared. The corpses rolled or shrank away from him. He looked down at Auraya and smiled.

:Hello, Auraya.

“Chaia!”

:Yes.

He walked to the edge of the mud and held out a hand. She hesitated, then reached out to take it. Firm, warm fingers gripped her own. He pulled, and she felt the mud relinquish its hold on her legs.

:Let’s return to your room, he said.

The battlefield vanished. Suddenly she was sitting on her bed, Chaia beside her. He smiled and reached out to her face. The touch of his fingers as he traced them along her jaw sent a shiver down her spine. He leaned toward her, and she knew he was going to kiss her.

Uh oh, she thought, drawing away. It’s all very well conjuring him up to rescue me from the nightmare, but dreaming up erotic encounters is definitely going too far.

:You resist. You think this is wrong. Disrespectful.

“Yes.”

He smiled.

:But how can it be disrespectful, when I am the one kissing you?

“You’re not real. The real Chaia might be offended.”

:I’m not real? His smile widened. Are you sure?

“Yes. The real Chaia can’t touch me.”

:I can in dreams.

As Leiard had, she thought. The memory of him brought an uncomfortable rush of different emotions. Pain at his betrayal. Shame that she had taken to bed someone whom this god probably didn’t approve of. And despite this: longing. Her dream links with Leiard had seemed utterly real. She felt a flush of remembered pleasure, quickly followed by embarrassment and shame again as she remembered whose presence she was in - even if he was only a dream shadow of the god.

:Do not regret your past, Chaia told her. Everything you do teaches you something about the world and yourself. It is up to you to draw wisdom from your mistakes.

She considered him warily. He was so forgiving. But of course he was. This wasn’t Chaia. The real Chaia would... what? Scold her like a child?

Chaia laughed.

:Still convinced I’m a dream?

“Yes.”

He slid his hand behind her neck and leaned close.

:Open your eyes.

She stared at him. “What if I dream of opening my—”

He sealed her mouth with his. She stiffened with surprise. Suddenly he and her room disappeared. She was lying down, covered in blankets. In her bed. She saw only darkness. Her eyes were closed.

Awake.

But her lips tingled. She opened her eyes. A luminous face hovered over hers. The mouth widened into a smile. One eye winked.

Then the apparition vanished.