Last of the Wilds

5



The old storehouse was full of tantalizing smells. The odors were of wooden shipping trunks and straw mixed with the variety of goods they had contained, spiced with the salty tang of the sea breeze coming in from the docks a few streets away.

In one room the pungent odor of hroomya, the dye that produced an intense blue, overwhelmed all other scents. In another the warm smell of oiled leather dominated. One room was highly perfumed, while another’s stained floor reeked like a drink house. Goods from all lands of Northern Ithania had been stored here, from places Auraya had never seen.

A knocking brought her out of her reverie. She realized she had wandered far down the corridor and hastily turned back. As she reached the hall in which the former owner had conducted his business with customers, she stopped. Am I ready to do this?

She took a deep breath and made herself walk over to the main doors.

As ready as I’ll ever be, she told herself. All I can do is try to keep any less pleasant consequences as small as possible.

She straightened as she reached the heavy wooden doors. Grasping the handles, she pulled them inward. They parted and swung open with a satisfyingly impressive creak. Auraya smiled at the woman in Dreamweaver robes standing behind them.

Raeli, Dreamweaver Adviser to the White, gave Auraya a wary look. She had never made any attempt to hide her distrust of the White, but had always been cooperative. Auraya read from the woman’s mind that this strange meeting place had sparked both curiosity and wariness in the woman.

“Come in, Dreamweaver Adviser Raeli,” Auraya said, beckoning.

“Thank you, Auraya of the White,” Raeli replied. As she stepped inside her eyes moved around, taking in the storeroom’s hall and the corridor that led away. “Why have you brought me here?”

Auraya chuckled. “You come straight to the point. I like that about you.”

She indicated that Raeli should follow her, then, without waiting to see if she did, started walking slowly down the corridor. “Jarime is a large city and is growing ever larger. Until now the sick had to visit the Temple or send someone there to collect a healer priest when they needed the help of Circlian healers.” She glanced over her shoulder and was pleased to see that Raeli was following. Slowing so that the Dreamweaver caught up, she gestured at the empty rooms. “It is a long journey for some. To alleviate that problem, we are going to turn this place into a hospice.”

Raeli considered this news. It is a good idea, she thought. It is about time the Circlians took better care of the poor living in this district. The distance to the Temple is a problem that some people overcome by consulting us Dreamweavers instead… Are the Circlians trying to take our custom away? Why has Auraya invited me here to tell me this? Her plans must involve Dreamweavers. At once Raeli felt a rising suspicion.

“What do you want of us?” she blurted.

Auraya stopped at the entrance to the room that smelled of leather and turned to face the Dreamweaver. “To invite your people to join us. Dreamweavers and healer priests working together. I’d say it was for the first time, but it has happened before.”

Raeli frowned. “When?”

“After the battle.”

The Dreamweaver stared at Auraya. So they admit we were useful, she thought. It would be nice if they thanked us. Or we got some kind of acknowledgment for our work… but I suppose this is an acknowledgment. Her skepticism faltered for a moment and she felt a small thrill of hope.

Auraya looked away. “Of course, it might not work. Several healer priests have volunteered to work here with you, but they may find they are less tolerant and open-minded than they believe. The sick who come here might not accept your help. I doubt we will overcome more than a century of prejudice in a few weeks, months or even years. But,” she shrugged, “we can only try.”

The Dreamweaver moved into the opposite room, her nose wrinkling at whatever smell lingered there.

“I can’t answer for my people. It is a decision for the Elder.”

“Of course.”

Raeli glanced back. “This place will need a good clean.”

Auraya smiled ruefully. “Some rooms more than others. Would you like to have a look around?” She saw the answer in Raeli’s mind. “Come then. I’ll show you—and tell you my plans for modifications. I’d like your opinion on how we should change the water supply system.”

This time, as she continued down the corridor, Raeli walked beside her. Auraya described how both cold and heated water could be piped through the building. Each room would be fitted with a drain to allow for easy cleaning. There were operating rooms for surgery, and storerooms for medicines and tools. Raeli made simple suggestions in a quiet voice and thought frequently of older, more experienced Dreamweavers who could give better advice.

When they had explored every room they returned to the main hall. Raeli was quiet and thoughtful, musing that she had always laughed at the title of Dreamweaver Adviser because she didn’t believe the White would ever listen to her advice. Then suddenly she looked up at Auraya.

“Have you heard from Leiard?”

Auraya felt a jolt inside. She stared at Raeli in surprise.

“No,” she forced herself to answer. “You?”

Raeli shook her head. Scanning the woman’s thoughts, Auraya understood that Leiard had not just disappeared from her own life. No Dreamweavers had seen him since the battle. The Dreamweaver Elder, Arleej, was concerned about him and had asked all Dreamweavers to report to her if he was seen.

She felt a stab of worry and guilt. Had he fled everything and everyone out of fear that Juran or the gods would punish him for daring to be her lover? Or was he simply obeying Juran’s orders? But Juran had said he had ordered Leiard to leave, not to disappear completely.

He didn’t order Leiard to sleep with a whore, either, she reminded herself. She started toward the hallway and Raeli followed. He must have known I’d read his mind the next time I saw him—whenever that might be—and see his infidelity.

But he had decided the affair was over, so he wasn’t actually being disloyal, she reminded herself. That might have been forgivable if we’d been parted for a time, but we’d been separated for only a day. She smothered a sigh. Stop thinking about it, she told herself. It will get you nowhere.

Opening the doors, Auraya stepped out into the sunlight. Two platten waited in front: the hired one that had brought Raeli, and the gold and white one that Auraya had travelled in. She turned to Raeli.

“Thank you for coming, Dreamweaver Adviser Raeli.”

Raeli inclined her head slightly. “It was my pleasure, Auraya of the White. I will pass on your proposal to Dreamweaver Arleej.”

Auraya nodded. She watched as Raeli climbed into the platten. As the vehicle trundled away a sound came to mind: the creak of a spring as an animal trap was set. I am like a hunter, she thought. Knowing I need to set my traps for the good of others, but not liking it much.


Holding a bucket out to the waterfall, Emerahl let it fill. Even with the vessel just touching the fall, the flow was strong enough to make her arm ache.

She had spent most of the last few days making the cave a more comfortable home. Felling a small tree, she had cut it up and bound lengths of wood together to make two simple beds and a screen behind which she and Mirar could attend to private matters. For those private matters, as well as for holding drinking water and other tasks, she had carved several wooden buckets out of sections of the trunk.

Since Mirar must remain inside the void, the fetching of water and gathering of food was her responsibility—but not one she minded. The forest was a bountiful place, full of edible plants, animals and fungi. Little had changed since she had last stayed here. Without magic and hundreds of years of accumulated knowledge, surviving would have been more difficult. And dangerous, too.

As many plants in the forest were poisonous as not. She had seen several beautiful venomous insects, but they lurked in nooks and holes that only a fool might stick his or her hands in. The larger predatory animals, like leramers or vorns, might have been a problem if she hadn’t had magic to fend them off. She was alert to the beguiling effects of sleepvine, which used a telepathic call to lull animals into resting on its carpet of soft leaves, while slowly winding its limbs around them in a hold that eventually strangled and dismembered. Long ago she had met a plant breeder who had made himself rich selling a weaker dwarf variety to lords and ladies who had trouble sleeping.

The bucket was overflowing. She grasped the tough rope handle in one hand and picked up the second bucket. This was full of the afternoon’s harvest. With both buckets swinging, she strode into the tunnel.

Emerging into the cavern, she saw that Mirar was lying on his bed, staring at the roof high above. There was an air of melancholy about him. He turned his head to look at her, then slowly sat up.

“Dinner,” she said as she reached him. He said nothing. Setting the buckets down, she looked at the large, smooth boulder she had rolled into the cave two days ago. What had been a shallow natural depression in the stone was now a deep hollow. “Thank you.”

He looked at her, but did not speak.

Leiard must be in control, she decided. It wasn’t the melancholy that told her. Mirar was also prone to low moods, but he would have made a quip or comment as soon as she had appeared. Mirar was, by far, the more verbose of her two companions.

She poured some of the water into the hollow then began tearing the leaves into strips.

“You’re not going to cook those, are you?”

She looked up to find him regarding the ears of fungi dubiously.

“No.” She smiled. “I’ll dry them later. For my new collection.”

“Your collection of…?”

“Medicines. Cures. Amusements.”

“Ah.” His brows rose. She sensed thoughtfulness, then disapproval. The latter, she guessed, was at the realization of what she meant by “amusements.”

Talking to Leiard was like constantly reminding an elderly man of information he’d forgotten. No doubt he had accessed Mirar’s memories about her even as she had answered, learning that she sometimes worked as a healer and had occasionally been a seller of concoctions for the entertainment of rich nobles. He could also be a bit judgmental.

It wasn’t easy to make conversation with Leiard. He could not answer the questions she normally asked when she wanted to get to know somebody. Questions like: “How long have you been a Dreamweaver? Where were you born? Parents? Siblings?”

Her reluctance to believe he was a real person also held her back. He was probably an aberration—a personality that had somehow become grafted to Mirar’s. Though Mirar could not remember why or how this had happened, or if he’d welcomed the grafting or not, he was clearly not happy with the situation. She worried that by talking to Leiard, she might strengthen his sense of identity and so make his hold on Mirar stronger, but she also doubted Leiard was going to go away if she simply ignored him.

Perhaps I need to talk to him in a way that weakens him instead. I could try to make him doubt his sense of identity. That might help Mirar regain full control.

But what if she was wrong? What if Leiard was the real person and Mirar was just a residue of link memories—as Leiard believed? Was there any way of proving who was the true owner of that body?

She stopped working and stared at the stone depression full of water. Mirar’s face was reflected in the surface, but the expression on it belonged to someone else.

Mirar is a Wild. He has Gifts no ordinary sorcerer has. The ability to halt the aging of his body. The ability to heal perfectly, with no scarring. If he can still do these things then he must be Mirar.

She could test him. A few exercises to prove he was a Wild might do it.

Unless Leiard is a Wild too.

She shook her head. While not impossible, it was too great a coincidence. What chance was there that a new Wild had been born looking just like Mirar?

Unless… unless he hadn’t been born looking like Mirar, but, having gained so many link memories that he was no longer sure of his identity, he had subconsciously started to change his appearance. Mirar had told her he had looked considerably different two years ago.

She shuddered at the thought. To have one’s own personality slowly subverted by another’s to that extent…

Yet at the same time she felt a selfish elation. Did she really care if someone she didn’t know lost their identity if it meant she got Mirar back?

I am an evil, evil woman, she thought.

She lifted the fungi out of the bucket and set it aside. In the bottom of the container were several freshwater shrimmi lying in a finger-width of water, their feelers still waving weakly. Drawing a little magic, she heated the water in the stone depression. When it was boiling rapidly, she grabbed the shrimmi and tossed them in the water, two at a time. They gave a high-pitched shriek as they died, but it was a quicker death than letting them slowly suffocate in the air.

Leiard recoiled slightly, then leaned closer. She sensed a sudden lightening of his mood and when he looked up at her and smiled she knew Mirar was back.

“Mmm. Dinner looks good. What’s for dessert?”

“Nothing.”

He pouted. “I sit here slaving over the cookware all day and you can’t even find me a bit of fruit or honey?”

“I could get you some flame berries. I’ve heard they’re quite sweet—on the tongue.”

He grimaced. “No, thank you. I prefer to be blissfully unaware of my intestines and their function.”

She lifted the shrimmi out of the water then added the shredded leaves. They wilted quickly. When they were cooked to her satisfaction, she picked up two wooden plates and divided the meal. From jars nearby she took some salt and toasted nuts and sprinkled them over the vegetable—a little seasoning for a bland but nutritious dish.

Mirar accepted a plate and ate with his usual enthusiasm. This was one habit Leiard also exhibited. They both appreciated food. Emerahl smiled. There was something lacking in a person who didn’t enjoy good food.

“What else did you do while I was out?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Thought. Talked to myself.” His nose wrinkled. “Argued with myself.”

“Oh? Who won?”

“I did, I think.”

“What did you argue about?”

He peeled a shrimmi and tossed its shell into a bucket. “Who owns this body.”

“What did you conclude?”

“I do.” He looked down. “I recognize it. You recognize it. Therefore it must be mine.”

She smiled. “I thought I’d come up with a way to prove that today. If you could prove you were a Wild, you would know that your body was yours.”

He chuckled. “And?”

“What if Leiard is a new Wild who has been infected with your link memories and you have been using his powers to change his body to make it look like your own?”

“Infected?” He looked hurt. “That’s not a flattering way to look at it.”

“No,” she agreed. She met his eyes and held them.

He looked away. “It is possible. I don’t know. I wish I could remember.”

She sensed his frustration and felt sympathy. Then she felt a flash of inspiration. “Memory. Perhaps that is the key. You must regain those memories you’ve lost in order to know who you are.”

Mirar looked uneasy. “If all I am is a manifestation of link memories there will be nothing to regain.”

Standing up, she began to pace back and forth. “Yes, but if you are not, you will have memories that Leiard can’t possibly have.”

“Like what?”

She drew in a deep breath. “The tower dream. I suspect it is a memory of your death.”

“A dream of death that proves I’m alive?” He smiled crookedly. “How would that prove this is my body? It might simply be another link memory. I might have projected the experience to another, who passed it on to others, who passed it on to Leiard.”

“But neither you nor Leiard recall having this dream.”

“No.” He looked thoughtful. “Yet you believe I’m the source.”

She sat down. “The dream grew stronger the closer I came to you. We are now far from other people, yet the dream is still vivid. I only dream it when you are also asleep.”

“How could I be projecting a dream I don’t know I’m having?” he asked, though from his tone she knew he already guessed the answer. He was, after all, well versed in the ways of dreams.

“We don’t always remember our dreams,” she reminded him. “And this is a dream you may not want to remember.”

“So if I made myself remember the dream I might remember other things. Like why there is another person in my head.”

“That shouldn’t be so hard for the founder of the Dreamweavers.”

He chuckled. “I have a reputation to live up to.”

“Yes.” She held his gaze. “A reputation that hasn’t diminished over the last hundred years. If you are Mirar, the gods aren’t exactly going to be declaring a festival day to welcome you back. It’s time I started teaching you how to hide your mind. Shall we begin now?”

Nodding resignedly, he put aside his empty plate.


Dreamweaver Elder Arleej poured two glasses of ahm. She carried them to the chairs by the fire and handed one to Neeran. The old Dreamweaver accepted the drink gratefully and gulped it down.

Arleej took a sip and watched her old friend closely. He had said nothing at the news, just moved to a seat and collapsed into it. Lowering herself into the opposite chair, she set the glass aside.

“So what do you think we should do?”

Neeran pressed his hands to his face. “Me? I can’t make this sort of decision.”

“No. You can’t. Last I recall, you weren’t the leader of the Dreamweavers.”

He removed his hands and gave her a withering look. “Then why do you always follow my advice?”

She chuckled. “Because it’s always good.”

He grimaced. “I want to advise caution, but a part of me wants us to snatch up this opportunity before it turns out to be another whim of Auraya’s and she finds something else to occupy her.”

Arleej frowned. Sometimes she almost regretted telling Neeran of Leiard’s affair with Auraya of the White. It had lowered his opinion of Auraya. His disapproval reminded her to not be too enchanted by this White who favored Dreamweavers. When Neeran had declared Auraya was the source of Leiard’s downfall, he was not far from the truth.

Though where Leiard was now, Arleej could not guess. He had disappeared after the battle and she had not been able to contact him via dream links. She had been forced to take on Jayim’s training, though she hadn’t regretted it yet. The boy was proving to be an adept and charming student.

Whether Auraya was the reason for Leiard’s disappearance or not, it appeared she still wanted to encourage peace and tolerance between Circlians and Dreamweavers. This latest offer—to start a hospice in Jarime in which Dreamweavers and healer priests and priestesses worked together—was both startling and well-timed. Circlians had seen the good Dreamweavers had done for the wounded on the battlefield. The heathens had proven their worth to the healer priests and priestesses. It made sense that the best push toward peace and tolerance would be in the direction of healing.

“But what’s the catch?” Arleej said aloud.

Neeran looked at her and smiled crookedly. “The catch?”

“Yes. Will Dreamweavers decide the Circlian way of life is better and leave us to join them?”

The old man chuckled. “Or will Circlians decide they prefer our way of life, and we’ll have too many new students to teach?”

She picked up her glass, took a sip, then set it down again. “Just how closely will our people and theirs work? If they have suddenly decided that our medicines and healing methods are worthwhile, will they want to adopt them?”

“Probably. But we have never kept them a secret before.”

“No. And I doubt their interest or tolerance extends to our mind-linking skills.”

Neeran’s nose wrinkled. “There is still a law against dream-linking in most of Northern Ithania. Dreamweavers should avoid linking in any way with their patients if Circlians are observing. I doubt the White’s intention is to trick us into criminal acts so they can lock us away, but we should still exercise caution in these matters.”

“Yes,” she agreed. She turned to regard him. “It sounds as if you are advising me to agree to the offer.”

He met her eyes, then looked away. Slowly he began to nod. “Yes. But… seek the agreement of the others.”

“Very well. We will vote on it. I will dream link with leaders in other lands tonight.” She picked up her glass and handed it to Neeran. “I will need a clear mind.”

He took the glass from her, but didn’t drink. Instead he looked at her, an odd expression on his face.

“I have a terrible feeling that we face a moment of great change. Either we will miss a wonderful opportunity to prove our worth to the people of Northern Ithania or we will make ourselves redundant.”

Arleej shook her head. “Even if the Circlians surpass us in healing, even if they learn to heal through dreams and mind links, they can never be all that we are. Those that seek the truth will always come to us.”

“Yes.” He smiled and raised the glass. “Here’s to link memories.”