Last of the Wilds

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.”