Last of the Wilds

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 à 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.