Last of the Wilds

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.