Last of the Wilds

21



Devlein slipped the last slice of fruit into his mouth then licked the sweet juice off his fingers. One of the three servants standing nearby stepped forward and held out a tray made of gold. Taking the neatly folded damp cloth from it, Devlein cleaned his hands, then dropped the cloth back on the tray.

The sound of running footsteps echoed in the courtyard. A servant raced up to Devlem’s table and bowed.

“The shipment has arrived.”

Only two days late, Devlein thought. If I threaten the dyers a little I may make the market before Arlem does—but only if the stock hasn‘t spoiled.

He rose and strode out of the courtyard. An arched corridor took him through to the front of the house. He followed a paved path to the plainer buildings that housed his wares.

Tarns waited outside. Men were already carrying the large rolls of cloth inside, watched by his overseer.

Entering the building, Devlein ignored the servants and examined the shipment. The waterproof wrapping of one bolt of cloth was torn.

“Open it,” he ordered.

Servants hurried to cut the wrapping away.

“Careful!” Devlein bellowed. “You’ll damage the cloth!”

Their movements became slower and more cautious. As they worked they cast nervous glances in his direction. Good, he thought. The whipping I ordered has finally taught them to be more respectful. They were getting more like Genrian women every day, whining and complaining.

The wrapping parted, revealing clean, undamaged cloth. He moved closer as more began to appear.

“Master Trader!”

The room echoed with running footsteps. He glanced up, annoyed at the interruption. The intruder was one of the lawn clippers. She was ugly for an Avven woman and he had sent her out to work in the garden so he didn’t have to look at her.

“Master,” she panted. “There is a monster in the pool house!”

He sighed. “Yes. I put it there.”

She bit her lip. “Oh. It appears to be dead.”

“Dead?” He straightened in alarm.

She nodded.

Cursing in his native Genrian tongue, he strode past her out of the warehouse and hurried toward the gardens. The pool house was at the center of a large lawn. The lawn clippers had gathered in a crowd around the entrance.

“Get back to work!” he ordered.

They turned to stare at him, then scattered. As he reached the gate of the house he drew out the key to the lock. Inside, he could see the youngling sea creature lying on the floor.

He hadn’t had much time to examine his purchase closely last night. The raider had claimed it was a girl child, but the only evidence of that was the lack of male organs. Devlein had ordered his servants to remove the dirty rags that had hung off the creature’s shoulders. Looking her over, he decided the raider was right, and wondered if she’d develop breasts like humans.

Perhaps, when she was mature, he would purchase a male. If they produced offspring he could sell their young for a fortune.

The lock clicked. He pushed the gate open and walked over to the creature. Why had she climbed out of the water? Crouching down, he saw that she was still breathing.

The more he looked at her, the more concerned he grew.

Her breathing was labored. Her skin was dull and cracked. If she had been human, he would have said she was dangerously thin. She also smelled foul. All animals smelled bad and he had assumed that the reek was natural, but now he wasn’t so sure.

He took her chin and turned her head so he could examine her face. At the touch her eyes fluttered open, then closed again. She gave a faint moan.

I paid a lot of money for her. He rose and stared down at her. If she’s sick I need to find someone to cure her. Who will know what’s wrong? I could bring in an animal healer, but I doubt they’ve ever seen one of the sea people before. I doubt anyone has. Unless…

He smiled as he realized there were people in Glymma who might know about the sea people. Turning away, he quickly locked the gate and hurried toward the house, shouting for a messenger.


Mirar lifted a rock. Nothing. He put it down again and lifted another. A creature scurried away. He made a grab for it, but it shot straight into a crack between two much larger and heavier boulders.

Curse it. How does Emerahl catch these shrimmi? If I could just—

“Wilar! Dreamweaver!”

He jumped in surprise and looked up. Tyve was circling above him. Mirar caught a powerful feeling of anxiety and urgency from the boy. Standing up, he shaded his eyes and watched the Siyee land.

“What is it?”

“Sizzi is sick. So are Veece and Ziti. Others are sickening, too. Can you come to the village? Can you help us?”

Mirar frowned. “Did the Speaker send you to me?”

“Yes.”

This was not entirely the truth, if the uneasiness Mirar sensed in Tyve was any indication. He narrowed his eyes at the young Siyee.

“Did he really?”

Tyve shot Mirar a guilty glance. “Not exactly. He is too sick to speak. I suggested to the rest that I ask you for help, since you’re a healer. They agreed.”

This, Mirar sensed, was the truth. He nodded. “I will come. What are the symptoms?”

“You’ll see when you get there,” Tyve said impatiently. “We should leave now, if you’re to arrive before… It’s a long way.”

“Therefore a long way to return to get the right cures,” Mirar pointed out. “I need to know what this illness is so I can pack my bag. Tell me about it.”

Tyve described what he had seen. As he did, Mirar felt his stomach sink. It sounded like a disease called Hearteater which occasionally spread among landwalkers. Most likely a Siyee had caught it during the war and brought it back to the tribe. Mirar hadn’t considered that diseases might be an inevitable consequence of the Siyee mixing with outsiders. He cursed the White silently.

You can’t be sure the White knew this would happen, Leiard reminded him.

But there’s no happiness greater than having someone to blame, Mirar replied.

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

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

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

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

Food, too, Leiard reminded him.

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

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

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


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

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

She felt Mischief shift position on her back.

“Fly!” he declared. “Fly! Fly!”

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

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

He fell silent for a moment.

“Syee,” he said quietly.

Some of her impromptu escort she recognized, some she didn’t. She exchanged whistled greetings with them all.

Their thoughts were full of relief and gladness. They knew why she was here, however, and worry made their welcome subdued compared to previous ones.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Syee,” Mischief whispered at her ear.

Smothering a laugh, Auraya gave his head a scratch.

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

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

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

“Seeree,” he replied. “Syee Seeree.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

“Not yet.”

“Have they spoken to anyone?”

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

“Have they attempted to make a permanent settlement?”

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

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

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

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

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

The Siyee exchanged glances, many scowling.

“Never!” one of the representatives hissed.

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

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

“Of course not.”

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

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

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

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

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

The other Speakers voiced their agreement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll go,” he offered.

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

“I will go—if I am not too old.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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