Last of the Wilds

33



Glymma’s towers and walls had disappeared in a haze of dust not long after the ship set sail. The low pale line that was the Avven coast passed on their left, while the right horizon was flat and indistinct. Reivan leaned on the ship’s railing and thought of what lay beyond.

The low mountains of southern Sennon, she thought. Then desert, then mountains, then the lush lands of the Circlians.

Not that all of Northern Ithania beyond the mountains was fertile, useful land. A dry wasteland existed at the center and the mountains of Si were near impassable. Circlians had far more usable land than the Pentadrians, however. Mur was crowded between the escarpment and the sea, Avven suffered droughts, and Dekkar’s riches came from cleared jungle, but the soil quickly turned to useless dust within a few years.

What will Imi’s homeland be like?

Reivan had picked up some information from Imenja. “Borra is a circle of islands,” she had said. “But they don’t venture out to them often for fear of raider attacks. They live, instead, in a city accessed by an underwater tunnel.”

So how are we going to get in? Reivan wondered.

“There is another entrance, above ground.”

Reivan jumped, and turned to find Imenja at her elbow.

“I see,” she replied. “That’s good to hear.”

“Oh, we probably won’t use it. The Elai don’t trust landwalkers, so I doubt we’ll be welcome in the city at all.”

“How will we meet the king, then?”

“On the islands, perhaps.” Imenja shrugged. “We’ll see when we get there.”

“Has Imi settled in?”

Imenja smiled. “Yes, she is in the pavilion, changing her clothes for something more comfortable. She’ll join us soon, I suspect. It seems even the Elai suffer from seasickness. How are you feeling?”

Reivan grimaced. She was trying to ignore the queasy feeling that nagged at her. “I could be worse.”

“You’ll be fine in a few days.” Imenja turned to face the sea. “I have a task for you.”

Reivan looked at her mistress in surprise. What could Imenja possibly want her to do? They were stuck on this ship for the next few months.

“What is that?”

“I want you to learn Imi’s language. It would be better for us all if I was not the only one who could communicate with the Elai.”

Relieved, Reivan smiled. “I can do that, though how well I learn it depends on how much time I have. Is Imi willing to teach me?”

Imenja nodded. “Yes. We’ve discussed it. It’ll give you both something to do while we travel.”

“And I brought all those books thinking I would have plenty of time to read,” Reivan said, sighing.

The Voice smiled. “There’ll be plenty of time for reading, too. You have to keep me from going mad with boredom as well.”

“Definitely can’t allow that.” Reivan looked at Imenja sidelong. “Being stuck on a ship with an insane Voice doesn’t sound at all pleasant.”

Imenja chuckled. She looked out at the sea again, then drummed her fingers on the railing.

“Imi hasn’t yet realized I can read her mind. She is puzzled that I knew her name and can speak her language, but she hasn’t worked out how.”

“Are you going to tell her?”

“Not yet. I suspect knowing I can read minds will make me seem even less trustworthy to the Elai than ordinary landwalkers.”

“It could. Although Imi may work it out in the future. She may think you avoided telling her deliberately in order to deceive her.”

“Yes.” Imenja frowned. “It would take a lot to shake her trust. I must come up with a plausible explanation.”

The ship suddenly heaved upward under a wave. Reivan felt her insides shift in an unsettling, uncomfortable manner.

“I think I may throw up,” she found herself saying under her breath.

Imenja laid a hand on her shoulder. “Keep your eyes on the horizon. It helps.”

“What am I supposed to do at night, when I can’t see it?”

“Try to sleep.”

“Try?” Reivan laughed, then clutched the railing as the ship plummeted down the other side of the wave.

“One other thing,” Imenja said. “Don’t lean too far over. You might lose your pendant. Or fall in.”

Reivan looked down at the silver star hanging from the chain around her neck. “You’d just make me another one, wouldn’t you?”

“I can’t,” Imenja said. “Inside each pendant is a tiny piece of coral, carefully grown by secret methods known only to Voices and a chosen few Servants. The coral’s natural habit is to send out a telepathic signal to other corals, on one night each year, triggering a mass release of coral seeds. We’ve bred one special type of coral that allows us to channel our own signals—or thoughts—on any day of the year. That is what allows us to communicate via the pendants.” Imenja chuckled. “I don’t have any spare pieces of coral on me, so don’t lose the pendant.”

Reivan lifted the star and turned it over. The back was smooth but for a small indentation in the center, filled with a hard black substance. She had often wondered what it was, but her old habit of investigation as a Thinker had lost against the fear of meddling with something sacred to the gods.

“Coral,” she said. “I wonder what the Elai would think of that?”

“They will not find out,” Imenja said firmly. “It is a secret, remember.”

“Of course.” Reivan let the pendant swing back against her chest.

Imenja drummed her fingers on the railing again.

“So, which books did you bring? They’re not all Thinkers’ books, are they?”

Rolling her eyes, Reivan took a step back from the railing.

“Come on, then. I’ll show you.”


Mirar chuckled to himself.

Feeling smug, are we? Leiard asked.

That promise I extracted from Auraya solves all our problems, Mirar replied. I don’t have to leave. I can stay and continue helping the Siyee. She won’t break a promise she made in the gods’ names.

Won’t she? I thought I was the overly trusting one.

You are. You wouldn‘t have asked her to make the promise.

Because I know she would break a promise if the gods ordered her to.

A promise made in their names?

Who would know? There were no witnesses.

Auraya would know. They would lose her respect.

And you will still be dead.

Not unless I give them reason to kill me. So long as the Siyee are sick, I am safe. Once this plague has passed I will attempt to disappear again. And I have a chance of succeeding if Auraya is elsewhere.

Mud oozed up around Mirar’s feet at every step and it was growing deeper. The air stank of rot. He cursed Tyve under his breath. No doubt the boy had sent him into this ravine because it ran in the direction of the North Forest village or was otherwise easier going than the terrain around it. Unfortunately Tyve could not have seen past the dense vegetation to the boggy ground beneath.

Taking another step, Mirar felt his foot slip and grabbed a tree trunk to prevent himself sliding down into the mire. He found himself sitting in a shallow pool of mud.

He cursed again and clambered to his feet. Looking ahead, he saw an endless forest of thin trunks snaking out between tussocks of grass. The ground between glistened.

You have to go back, Leiard said.

Mirar sighed. The grass was floating on top of the mud, making the ground look more solid than it was. He looked down at himself. Mud caked his trousers and dripped from the lower edge of his Dreamweaver vest.

If Auraya could see me now… he thought.

… she’d have a good laugh at our expense, Leiard finished.

Yes. He found himself smiling. Shaking his head, he turned and started back the way he had come.

You like her, Leiard said.

I’ve never said I didn‘t.

No, but this time you know it for yourself. You have come to that conclusion without my influence. You know these are your own feelings, not mine.

Mirar considered this and nodded.

Yes. I see what you mean.

The way forward became steeper. He thought of the slippery descent into the ravine and the trouble he’d probably have getting out, and groaned.

Auraya has probably already arrived at her destination, he thought wryly.

A memory rose of Auraya leaping off a platform, then speeding upward at an angle the Siyee would have found impossible to emulate. He had watched her until she had vanished behind the tree tops, wondering how it was that her ability could still amaze him.

You admire her, Leiard stated. That’s why.

Mirar shrugged. Yes.

It was not just the ease with which she used her unique gift, but the way she set out to do whatever she needed to do. Competent, but not vain about her skills. Efficient, but not without compassion.

She’s not unattractive, he added. But, of course, the White wouldn’t choose ugly people to be their representatives.

Yet her beauty wasn’t obvious. Some would say she was too sharp-featured.

People who prefer round, busty women, Leiard agreed.

She wasn’t all angles either. She had curves.

You noticed her curves, then? Leiard asked.

Yes. Mirar snorted. I’m a man; I notice curves. Are you jealous?

How can I be? I am you.

He felt a chill. Looking up, he made himself examine the steep slope of rock and plants before him. Everything was wet and slippery. He sought hand- and foot-holds and began to haul himself up.

If you‘re me, then you don’t love Auraya, Mirar found himself thinking.

Ah, but I do.

He shook his head. So I do too?

Yes.

Climbing was like walking on hands and knees up a half-collapsed wall. Mirar shook his head in exasperation, both at having to climb it and at Leiard’s ridiculous conversation.

Why don’t I feel it, then?

You won’t let yourself. You’ve buried your feelings.

Oh, really? That’s a fine thing to claim. I could spend the rest of my life searching for feelings I don’t have, and you could keep using that explanation each time I fail to find them. Just look a little deeper, you’ll say. Just search a little harder.

But you haven’t searched for them, Leiard pointed out. You have the skill as a Dreamweaver to explore your subconscious, but you haven’t. You‘re afraid of the consequences. What would it matter if I am right? You can’t pursue her anyway.

If you’re right it will only cause me pain. Why should I risk that?

Because you’ll never be rid of me until you do.

Mirar paused. He was close to the top now. I should be concentrating on climbing, he thought.

Instead he closed his eyes and slowed his breathing. He sent his mind into the dream trance, entering it slowly and reluctantly. He made himself think of Auraya. A stream of memories flowed into his mind. Auraya healing. Auraya flying. Auraya talking, debating, laughing. He saw the past, both distant and recent, even as he continued climbing. He remembered their conversations about peace between Dreamweavers and Circlians and felt respect for her. He recalled humorous moments when they had played with Mischief and he felt affection for her. He pictured her powerful and skilled and felt awe and pride. He saw her flying and… remembered a suspicion he’d once had about this ability. It almost distracted him from his purpose but he made himself push it aside. If he was to do this properly he must allow himself to relive only those moments of closeness they’d shared, like the experience of intimacy, of pleasure and exploration, of deeper feelings, a feeling of belonging, of not wanting to be anywhere else. Of connection. Of trust.

Of love.

He found himself standing at the top of the slope, gasping with exertion and a terrifying, exhilarating realization of the truth.

I understand. Emerahl was right and yet she was wrong, too. To become Leiard he hadn’t created new characteristics within himself. No, he had blocked those he felt were most identifiable to others. In doing so he had released others he had pushed aside for years. Leiard is me. I am Leiard. He is what I became when I suppressed those parts of my character that once held back feelings I thought were dangerous. Feelings like love.

Feelings he had learned to distrust. Love had only ever brought him—an immortal in a world of mortals—endless pain. By becoming Leiard, he had freed himself to love again.

I am Leiard. Leiard is me. He pressed his hands to his face. I love Auraya.

He laughed bitterly at the irony. Centuries ago he had built a hard wall around his heart to prevent himself falling in love with yet another mortal woman doomed to die. Now he had fallen in love with an immortal. An amazing, beautiful, intelligent sorceress with astonishing Gifts, who had once loved him in return.

“But she’s a cursed high priestess of the gods!” he shouted.

The sound of his voice jolted him out of the trance to a full awareness of his surroundings. He drew in a deep breath and let it out.

You did say it would be painful, he thought at Leiard.

No reply came. Perhaps Leiard was playing a little joke on him. He waited a little longer. Nothing.

Perhaps he is gone. He shook his head. No. Not gone, but no longer separate from me, or me separate from him.

He looked around, then started walking. There was nothing to do but keep going. Alone. He felt a pang of regret. Somehow he knew he would not be hearing from Leiard again.

I think I’m going to miss him. I can’t have Auraya and now I don’t have Leiard to talk to.

The thought should have been funny, but instead it left him feeling empty and sad.


In the topmost rooms of the White Tower, Juran paced. Each time he passed the windows he glanced down at the city. Long ago he had given up trying to keep a picture in his mind of the way Jarime had looked at the beginning, or at different times in the last hundred years. He might not age physically, but his memories were as prone to fading as any mortal’s.

Which was the source of his dilemma now.

:I can’t remember, he said. It has been too long. It’s like trying to remember what my parents’ maid looked like—and I probably saw her thousands of times more than I saw Mirar when he was alive. Why do you want me to remember what he looked like?

:A suspicion. Either Mirar lives, or we have another Dreamweaver in the world with abilities normally restricted to immortals, Huan said.

Juran felt his heart turn over.

:I’m not sure what would be worse. You do not recognize him, then?

:I cannot see him except through another’s eyes. I cannot recognize him unless the viewer does. You are the only person alive who can recognize him.

Surely you would know if he was Mirar from his mind…?

:I cannot see his mind.

Juran stopped pacing and a chill ran down his spine.

:Would this Dreamweaver be Leiard?

:Yes.

:Leiard can’t be Mirar! I’ve seen into his mind.

:A mind which is now completely hidden. If he can do that, he may have been able to conceal parts of his mind before. He can also heal in a manner that immortals can, Huan added. As Mirar could. And there is one more suspicious factor.

:What is that?

:He has Mirar’s memories and admitted to hearing Mirar’s voice in his mind.

:But he can’t be Mirar! I would have recognized him!

:I wonder if you can. A hundred years is a long time. We have not observed the effect of memory loss in immortals we have created until now. Are there any portraits of Mirar left?

:Most were destroyed, but there may be a few in the archives. But… We found his body.

:You found a body that had been badly crushed. It may not have been his.

:What if Leiard isn’t Mirar?

:He may be a new Wild.

:And that makes him dangerous!

:Yes.

:Is Auraya safe?

:Chaia is watching over her.

Juran moved to the window and looked down at the city again. If Leiard was a new Wild and they were forced to kill him, Auraya would be devastated. Perhaps not as grieved as she would have been when she was still in love with him, but she would find the gods’ reasoning that all Wilds were dangerous hard to understand.

:We did not find all of the Wilds. Those that evaded us haven’t caused us any trouble, he said.

:Not yet. Remember, power is a corrupting force. Immortals do not recognize our authority. They believe their souls will never need to transcend the death of their body, so they feel no need to obey us. They are powerful and can do great harm. Better to be rid of them now, than wait until they fulfil their potential.

:What would we do if a Circlian became immortal— without your help?

:Perhaps, if they were loyal, we would allow them to live.

Juran pressed his forehead against the cool glass.

:So we must execute Leiard. We have no choice.

:If he is, indeed, a new Wild.

:How are we to confirm it?

:We will watch him closely. Do not alert Auraya to the possibility that he is a Wild yet, or the other White. Leiard has offered to teach her how to heal magically. That would require a linking of minds that may allow us to see past the shield hiding his thoughts. We must know if he is Mirar before we strike.

:When will this happen?

:We haven’t yet decided. There are risks. We will seek other means to discover his true identity first. When we have decided, we will let you know. Good night, Juran.

Moving away from the window, Juran headed for the cabinet he kept drinks for guests in. He poured himself a glass of Toren tipli. Though it would not make him drunk, he tossed it down and poured another. The tart flavor was both bracing and refreshing.

:I hope, for Auraya’s sake, that you are wrong, Huan.

The goddess did not reply.