Last of the Wilds

8



The staircase went on forever. Imi’s legs ached, but she set her eyes on her father’s back and pushed herself on, clenching her teeth to stop herself complaining.

He warned me, she thought. He said it took hours to climb up to the lookout. Then you have to come all the way down again. Next time I won’t have to come back. Next time I’ll swim away and come back via the Mouth.

The tunnel echoed with the heavy breathing of the adults. Teiti looked as if she was in pain. The guards, in contrast, appeared to be enjoying themselves. Those that regularly accompanied the king to the lookout were used to the exercise. Those who watched over Imi were enjoying a rare opportunity to visit a place that only a few were allowed to see.

Teiti began to gasp in the way she had each time she had been about to ask for a rest. Imi felt both annoyance and relief. She did not want to stop, she wanted the staircase to end.

“Not long now,” her father tossed over his shoulder.

Her aunt paused, then shrugged and continued on. Imi felt her heart lift with expectation. The next few minutes seemed longer than the hours behind them. Finally her father slowed to a stop. She peered around him to see they had reached a blank wall.

There was no door. Confused, she looked at the others. They were gazing up at the small trapdoor set into the roof.

Her father moved to one side, where an alcove like the ones they had passed on the way up held several pottery bottles of water. He passed them around. Imi splashed water over her skin gratefully, then drank. The water was stale but welcome after the long climb.

She looked up at the trapdoor, noting the rusty iron brackets in the back of the door. A heavy length of wood was propped against a wall nearby. She guessed this would be slipped into the brackets to stop the door opening if raiders found the tunnel.

At a signal from the king a guard reached up and knocked on the trapdoor. She noted the pattern—two quick knocks, three spaced ones, two more rapid ones. The trapdoor lifted. Two armored men peered down at them. Beyond them was the dazzling blue of the sky.

One of the watchers moved away, then returned carrying a ladder. He lowered it into the tunnel. The king sent two guards up first, then climbed it himself. As he stepped off it he peered down at Imi, smiled and beckoned.

She set a foot on the first rung and began to climb. Her sore feet protested after the long walk, but she gritted her teeth against the pain. As she reached the top her father grabbed her waist and hauled her out. She gave a laugh of surprise and pleasure.

Her father made a rueful sound. “You’re getting a bit heavy for that,” he said, rubbing his back. Straightening, he sighed and looked into the distance.

Imi examined her surroundings. She was standing in a dirt-filled space between several huge boulders. They were too high for her to see over. She jumped on the spot, and managed to catch glimpses of sea and horizon.

“Perhaps if I lift her, your majesty?” one of the king’s more robust guards offered.

The king nodded. “Yes. Only so long as you can manage.”

The guard smiled at Imi. “Turn around, Princess.”

She did as he asked and felt his large hands grip her waist. He lifted her up onto one broad shoulder and held her there.

Now she had a better view than anyone else. She could see the edge of the sea all around, she could see the islands of Borra forming a huge ring in the blue water, and she could see the steep rock slope of the island she was standing on stretching down toward a fringe of forest and the white of the beach.

“Can you get to here from the beach?” she asked.

Her father laughed. “Yes, but it would not be easy. The ground is steep and the stony surface is slippery. This peak is sheer smooth rock for a hundred paces on either side. You need ropes and a wall anchor to get up here.”

Imi felt her stomach sink with disappointment. Her plan to bribe and cajole her way up here at night to “admire the stars” then to slip away and run to the beach wasn’t going to work. Yet she was also relieved. It had been a long climb and even if the outside had been as she’d imagined—a gentle slope down to the beach—she’d have been too tired to run.

I’ll just have to come up with another plan, she decided.

They lingered there for half an hour, while her father pointed out landmarks. At the mention of raiders, Imi stared hard at the horizon. She listened to the watchers describe what a ship looked like, noting the details in case she should come across one on her way to the sea bells.

After a while her skin began to feel unpleasantly dry. In the corner of her eye she saw Teiti surreptitiously nudge her father and give him a nod. He announced it was time to leave.

Once they had all descended into the tunnel and wet their skin again, the guard that had lifted her suggested she might like to ride on his back. She looked at her father eagerly. He smiled.

“Go on. Just watch you don’t knock your head on the ceiling.”

She climbed on the guard’s back and rested her head on his shoulder, pretending to be sleepy. Then, as her father, aunt and the guard began to descend the staircase, she started to put together another plan to escape her protectors, and the city.


The curves of the paths within the Temple gardens were gentle and flawless. Whenever Auraya viewed them from her room in the Tower she found herself a little repelled by the overtly planned and ordered design of the gardens. In comparison to the natural wildness of the forest next to the village she had grown up in, or the magnificent disorder of Si’s wild territory, the interlocking circles and carefully spaced plants seemed ridiculous.

From the ground, however, there was something reassuring about the tamed regularity of the gardens. There was no danger of being stalked by leramers or vorns, or stumbling upon sleepvine. Nothing was left around to rot, so the air was fragrant with flowers and fruit. The curves of the paths created one attractive vista after another, and led a walker sensibly to where they needed to go without the temptation of cutting across the carefully trimmed grass.

Today Auraya was not taking a walk for pleasure, however. She and Juran were bound for the Sacred Grove.

They passed one of the many priests and priestesses who stood guard over the grove. The man appeared to be simply relaxing on a stone bench, reading a scroll, but Auraya knew his main task was to prevent anyone but the select few who tended the grove—and the White—from entering.

The priest made the sign of the circle and Juran nodded in reply. The path took Auraya and Juran through a gap in a wall of close-grown trees, then curved to the left. There it wound through a grove of fruit trees tended by more priests and priestesses before it reached a stone wall.

A wooden door filled a narrow opening in the wall. As they reached it the door swung inward. Auraya shivered as she stepped through. Though she had visited the grove several times the previous year she still felt a thrill of awe whenever she entered.

Four trees grew within the circular wall. They were the only four survivors of the hundreds of saplings planted here a hundred years before. Two had sprung up close to one another, and where their branches met they had twined together sinuously. Another was small and stunted. The third appeared to be crouching close to the ground, its branches spread wide.

The leaves and bark of these trees were so dark they were almost black. On close inspection the white wood beneath could be seen between cracks in the bark. The dark color was highlighted by the white pebbles that covered the ground, apparently to help retain moisture in the soil. The trees were better suited to a colder climate than Hania’s.

The color of the trees was strange enough, but the growth of their branches was even stranger. They had grown in weird and unnatural ways. Most of the smaller branches had small disc-like swellings along their length, and several of these had developed holes within the swellings. Other branches higher up had formed many thin twigs that had woven themselves together to form a cup, or larger swellings containing small holes. As Auraya watched, a small bird landed in one of the cups. A fledgling head appeared and the parent began to feed it.

“Did you see that?” a priest said.

Auraya turned to see a high priest speaking to a young priestess. The woman, a trainee carer, nodded.

“It has grown into the shape of a nest,” she said.

“Yes. If you climbed up there and put your hand inside you would find that the wood was warm. The bird has trained the wood not just to grow into a nest, but imprinted it with the Gift to convert magic into heat.”

“Why does the tree do it?”

The old man shrugged. “Nobody knows. Maybe the gods made it that way.”

“I can see now why it’s called the welcome tree,” the woman said. “I thought it a strange name for such an ugly tree.”

Auraya smiled. It was an ugly tree, but only because of the use humans had put its magically malleable wood to. When Juran had first brought Auraya here she had been amazed to learn that these trees were the source of the priest rings. The swellings on the branches would eventually be harvested, each ring containing the Gift that allowed priests to communicate with each other.

The welcome trees contained great potential, both for good and evil, but when Juran had told her of their limitations she had wondered how the Circlians found a use for them at all. The trees were hard to keep alive. Groves of them were maintained in most Circlian Temples, though only the well-guarded one in Jarime was used for growing the rings of priests and priestesses. Those that tended the trees guarded the secrets to keeping them alive and healthy.

The branches must be “trained” every day. When she had helped create her first link ring, she had needed to visit the grove early each morning and sit with the tree growing her ring for at least an hour. Despite all the effort required to make a ring, the wood lost its qualities within a few years. Priest rings were constantly being grown to replace those that were no longer effective. They were also only ever imbued with the one simple Gift of communication. More powerful Gifts could be taught, but the more magic those Gifts required, the quicker the wood lost the imprint.

The only rings that did not have these limitations were the White’s rings. They had grown spontaneously from the smaller tree, which otherwise stubbornly refused to be shaped by any will but the gods.

Another elderly priest appeared at Juran’s shoulder.

“Juran of the White,” he said, making the sign of the circle. “Auraya of the White. Are you here to begin your task?”

“We are, Priest Sinar,” Juran replied. “Where should we begin?”

The priest led them to the larger of the lone trees and indicated a twig that had sprouted from one of the main branches. Auraya smiled wryly as she remembered a similar twig she had watched slowly swell and form a ring the year before.

“This may be suitable,” the old man said.

“It is, thank you,” Juran replied. He looked at Auraya. “We may need a few minutes free of distraction as we begin.”

The priest nodded. “I will clear the grove.”

He hurried away and herded the other priests and priestesses through the door in the stone wall. When the grove was empty Juran turned to regard her, an odd, pained look on his face.

“What is it?” she asked.

He grimaced. “We must discuss something first.” He paused. “How… Have you forgiven me?”

She blinked in surprise. “Forgiven? For wh—? Ah.” Her stomach sank as she realized he was referring to Leiard. “That.”

“Yes. That.” He chuckled. “I would have given you more time than this before bringing the subject up, but Mairae insisted we must talk before you make this ring.” He sighed. “Years ago a priestess harvesting rings here suffered a terrible personal tragedy. Anyone who wore the rings she made began to feel sad, but nobody realized what was happening until a few priests and priestesses had killed themselves and people began to wonder why.”

“You’re afraid the same will happen,” Auraya said. She could not help smiling. “I’m not bouncing about with happiness, Juran, but I’m not suicidal either.”

“How are you feeling, then?”

“I’ve forgiven you.” As she said it she felt a wave of emotion and realized it was true. “It has worked out for the best.”

“Mairae thinks I handled it badly.” He frowned. “She believes there would have been no harm in… letting you two see each other so long as it was not publicly known.”

“But you don’t agree.”

His shoulders rose. “She has… made me reconsider.”

Auraya’s stomach constricted. So I would still be with Leiard if Mairae and Juran had taken some time to think about it. She tried to imagine what it would have been like to secretly meet with Leiard, with all the White knowing about it. It would have been embarrassing. I would not have discovered how easily Leiard’s eye was caught by another woman the moment he thought he couldn’t be with me.

She sighed. “No, I’m glad it worked out this way, Juran. It makes a lot of matters less complicated. Like the hospice.”

He smiled and nodded. They both looked up at the tree in silence for a moment, then Juran let out a sigh.

“So how shall we approach this shielded link-ring idea of yours?”


The river was like a ribbon of fire below, reflecting the bright colors of the dusk sky. Veece sighed at the ache in his arms. He could feel his joints creak as he tilted his wings to follow the water. He had to rest. The younger ones would not like it. They would stamp about impatiently and worry about reaching their home by the following night.

While his old body was not as limber or robust as theirs, he was still their Speaker. They would not complain if he chose to land, though they might tease him. Such was the prerogative of the young. After all, they would be old one day. They might as well get in a little teasing now, before they became the subject of it themselves.

The river dropped over a small cliff. He felt the faint touch of moisture in the air, thrown up by the waterfall. Ahead he could see another smaller fall. He flew over it, and decided he liked the look of it. If he dove off the dry rock by the edge he could become airborne again without the exhausting effort of running and flapping.

Circling around, he led the others back to the stretch of river above the fall. Landing jarred all his bones, but a moment later the pain was made worthwhile as he let his arms fall to his side and felt the ache in them ease.

“We’ll stop here for the night,” he declared.

Reet frowned. “May as well gather some food,” he said, stalking away into the forest. Tyve hurried after, muttering something about firewood. As Veece sat down on a boulder still warm from the sun, his niece, Sizzi, crouched beside him.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“A bit stiff,” he told her, rubbing his arms. “I just need to work it out a little.”

She nodded. “And what of your heart?”

He gave her a reproachful look, but she stared back unflinchingly. Sighing, he looked away.

“I feel better and I feel worse,” he told her. “No longer angry, but still… empty.”

She nodded. “It was a good thing that the Circlians did. The markers for the graves and the monument will ensure our help and our losses are never forgotten.”

“It won’t bring him back,” he reminded her, then he grimaced at his words. It was unnecessary to point that out and he sounded like a sullen child.

“It won’t bring back anyone’s sons,” she murmured. “Or daughters. Or parents. That cannot be undone. Nor should it, if it meant these Pentadrians won and came to slaughter us all.” She shook her head, then stood up. “I heard that the Circlians are sending priests to us. They will teach us healing, and help us defend ourselves with magic.”

He snorted. “No use to us, so far from the Open.”

“Not straight away,” she agreed. “If you send one of our tribe to learn from them, he or she will bring back that knowledge.”

“And you would like to b—”

“Veece! Speaker Veece!”

Reet and Tyve dashed out of the forest and hurried to his side.

“We found footprints,” one of them panted. “Big footprints.”

“Bootprints,” the other corrected.

“Must be a landwalker.”

“And they’re fresh—the prints, that is.”

“Can’t be far away.”

“Should we track him?”

They looked at Veece expectantly, their eyes shining with excitement. Ready to rush into danger, despite their experience of war. Or perhaps because of it. He could see that surviving unscathed when so many had not might give a young man a sense of invulnerability.

Then he remembered the last time a lone stranger had been encountered in Si and felt his blood turn cold.

“We should be careful,” he told them. “What if this is the black sorceress, returned with her birds to take revenge on us?”

The pair went pale.

“Then we can’t leave without finding out,” Sizzi said quietly. “All tribes will need to be warned.”

Veece considered her, surprised but impressed. She was right, though it meant they must take a terrible risk for the sake of their people. He nodded slowly.

“We best leave and return tomorrow.” He looked from Reet and Tyve to Sizzi. “In full light it will be easier to track this landwalker—or landwalkers. Hopefully we will be able to confirm whether magic has been used, or those black birds are present, without having to meet them.”

“What if one of us is seen?” Tyve asked. “What if it’s her, and she attacks?”

“We will do our best to avoid being seen,” Veece said firmly.

“Most landwalkers make so much noise they can be heard a mountain away,” Sizzi added.

Reet shrugged. “It’s probably just that explorer who brought the alliance proposal from the White last year. They say he’s a bit mad, but he’s no sorcerer.”

Veece nodded. “But we cannot gamble our lives on the chance that it is. We’ll leave now and find another place to stay tonight—far enough away that a landwalker couldn’t reach us if he or she walked all night.”

He rose and flexed his arms, then walked toward the edge of the cliff, the others following.