Last of the Wilds

by Trudi Canavan

  Suddenly he turned from her and began striding toward the cave entrance. Her heart stopped.

  “Leiard!” she shouted. “Don’t leave the protection of…” He kept walking. “…curse it. Mirar! Come back!”

  He stopped. She watched as his shoulders straightened. He turned to regard her, his expression serious. It was impossible to tell if her summons had worked. To her relief, he walked back into the center of the room.

  “That wasn’t pleasant,” he muttered as he sat down on the end of his bed.

  “Mirar?” she asked tentatively.

  “Yes, it’s me,” he confirmed. He stretched out on the bed, scowling. “So. What shall we try next, Old Hag?”

  She snorted at his use of the name. The Old Hag. Provider of cures for ills or bad circumstances.

  “Time,” she prescribed. “I need to think. So do you.” She stood up. “Can I trust you to stay put?”

  “You can trust me,” he said. “I won’t be voluntarily handing the reins over to him again.”

  “Good,” she told him. “Because I can’t stay to watch you. We have to eat, and sleep. It’ll become unpleasant in here if I can’t empty those buckets.”

  He glanced toward his own waste bucket and grimaced apologetically. “I hate to change an unpleasant subject to another, but I’m afraid I used mine while you were out.”

  She shrugged. Walking to the bucket, she picked it up. “I’ll take care of it now—and see if I can find a more interesting breakfast.”

  “Thank you,” he offered, then added a little sheepishly, “We need some fresh water, too.”

  She sighed, picked up the water bucket, and walked quickly out of the cave. Her footsteps echoed in the tunnel, but the sound was soon overwhelmed by the crashing of the waterfall. At the end of the tunnel she paused to stare at the falling water.

  He might as well sire a child, then murder it.

  Leiard’s reaction had shaken her and his words had sent chills down her spine. He clearly understood what his fate would probably be—and he did not like it. He was going to fight for his existence.

  This isn’t good, she thought. It can’t be healthy to have two people struggling for control of the same body.

  No matter how cruel it seemed, Leiard was an invention. Mirar was the real person. They could not both continue to exist.

  She sighed and moved outside the cave. The rain had stopped and the sun emerged from the cloud, reflected in water droplets everywhere. She paused to admire the effect. It was pretty. Romantic, even. She thought of Leiard’s references to Auraya. It was interesting that an invention of Mirar’s could feel romantic love. Surely that meant he was capable of it himself.

  If that was so, then everything Leiard was, Mirar could be too. Mirar might not like those aspects of himself, but Leiard was evidence of them.

  This isn’t a battle between Leiard and Mirar, she thought suddenly. It’s Mirar fighting what he doesn’t like or accept about himself.

  In that case, she thought, he needs to—

  A fleeting emotion from an unfamiliar mind touched her senses. She froze, then made herself relax and search her surroundings. Somewhere to the left a male was watching her. From his emotions of concern and worry she gathered that he was alarmed by her presence here in Si. Was he alone?

  Heart racing, she searched her surroundings and found another mind. Two minds—no, three. Four!

  So much for my brilliant hiding place, she thought. If we are discovered so easily…But who else would have ventured so far into Si?

  The Siyee, of course.

  She felt alarm ease a little. There was always a chance that the gods were watching her through the Siyee, but the odds were small. She sensed curiosity as well as caution, and guessed finding her here had been a surprise to them.

  They were, however, more fearful than she would have expected. Why they feared a lone landwalker woman, she couldn’t guess. Perhaps they were worried that she wasn’t alone.

  Well, I had better make an attempt to meet them. If I don’t they are likely to bring back others, whereas if I convince them I’m friendly and don’t intend to stay long they might leave me alone.

  She set the bucket down, then walked slowly along the water’s edge, pretending to be looking for food. When she was close enough to the Siyee to be heard over the falling water she straightened and glanced deliberately in the direction of each of the four strangers.

  “Greetings, people of the sky,” she called, hoping their language hadn’t changed too much.

  There was a long, anxious pause during which one of the watchers—a male—considered what to do. As she sensed him become decisive she turned to face him and saw movement in the trees.

  A gray-haired Siyee stepped into view. He stopped and uttered a series of sounds and whistles. Emerahl understood enough to know he was introducing himself.

  “Greetings, Veece, Speaker of the North River tribe,” she replied. “I am Jade Dancer.”

  “Greetings, Jade Dancer. Why are you here, in Si?”

  She considered her answer carefully. “When I heard war was coming, I came here to wait until it is over.”

  “Then I bring good news,” he told her. “The war was brief. It ended nearly two moon cycles ago.”

  She pretended to be delighted. “That is good news!” Then she added hastily: “Not that I don’t like Si, but it is a bit…ah…hard on a landwalker.”

  He moved a few steps closer and she sensed a lingering suspicion. “The forest is dangerous and the journey here difficult for those without wings. How have you lived here? How is it you know our language?”

  She shrugged. “I have lived many years on the edge of your lands,” she told him. “I have knowledge and Gifts—and I once helped an injured Siyee, who taught me your language. I work as a healer, when I am among my people.”

  “You are not a priestess?”

  “Me?” she asked, surprised. “No.”

  “I thought all Gifted landwalkers became priests or priestesses.”

  “No. Some of us don’t want to.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Why not?”

  He’s a nosy one, she mused. “I don’t want to tell others what to do, and I don’t want them to tell me what to do.”

  For the first time, he smiled. “Forgive my questions. There are two reasons for them. We feared that you were a Pentadrian sorceress—a woman who once attacked our people. We are soon to have our own priests and priestesses so I was curious to know why someone might not want to be one.”

  The Siyee are to have their own priests and priestesses? The news saddened her. They had been free from Circlian influence for so long. I suppose they need the protection now that there is the Pentadrian threat.

  She considered the old man. He was no longer radiating anxiety, though his curiosity was still tempered by caution. She felt certain he and his companions meant her no harm. They believed she was alone and that was how it must stay. She was not going to take any risks by introducing Mirar. No, best she convince these people she was alone and harmless.

  She crouched and washed her hands in the cold, swiftly running water.

  “There’s a basket-fruit tree just down the river from here,” she said. “Would you stay and eat with me? I haven’t had company for a long time.”

  He glanced toward his companions, then nodded. “Yes. We will. We cannot stay long, as we are already late in returning to our tribe, but we have time enough to talk and eat.”

  He whistled loudly. From among the trees stepped the other three Siyee: a middle-aged woman and two youths. They stared at Emerahl nervously as they approached. Veece introduced them. She smiled at them all, then rose and beckoned.

  “Follow me. I don’t know about you, but I always talk better when I’m not hungry.”

  And she led them down the river, and away from Mirar.

  The sky was a roiling blanket of low black clouds. Lightning dazzled her eyes. There was no thunder, just silence.

  There was n
o storm the night after the battle, Auraya thought as she stepped over bodies. Well, there were no talking corpses either.

  She endeavored to avoid looking at the faces of the dead, having learned that this triggered them into movement. Not looking down made navigation of the battlefield difficult, however. The darkness between the flashes of lightning was absolute. The moment came when her foot caught on a corpse, and she found herself looking down.

  Bloodshot eyes stared up at her. Lips moved.

  “You killed me,” the dead man wheezed.

  I used to wake up at this point, she thought. No more, however.

  “You killed me,” another voice said. A woman. A priestess. Then another spoke, and another. All around her bodies were moving. Rising, if they could. Dragging themselves forward if they could not. Coming toward her. Chanting their accusation, louder and louder.

  “You killed me! You killed me! You killed me!”

  She ran, but there was no escaping them. They surrounded her. I used to wake up now, too. Reached out to her. Bore her down into a crush of putrid, rotting bodies. Faces pressed close to hers, spitting and dribbling blood and gore. She felt them press against her chest with their bony fingers, the pressure making it hard to breathe. All the time they uttered the same words.

  “Owaya! Owaya!”

  What…?

  Suddenly she was awake and looking into a pair of large eyes fringed with fine lashes. Eyes that belonged to a veez.

  “Owaya,” Mischief repeated aloud, this time with a definite note of satisfaction. He was sitting on her chest, shifting his weight from one paw to another.

  “Mischief!” she gasped. As she sat up he leapt off her onto the bed. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then turned to regard the veez.

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  “Scratch?” he suggested.

  She obliged him, enjoying the feel of his soft fur as she scratched all along his back. As he made small noises of pleasure, she considered her nightmares. They were getting worse, not better. What this meant, she couldn’t guess.

  Perhaps I should consult a Dreamweaver.

  She considered the Dreamweavers who were going to be helping in the hospice. Would they agree to help her, or was that asking too much? Of course they would. They’re obliged to help anyone who asks for it.

  What would it be like, then? What did dream-healing involve? A mind link of some sort…

  Oh.

  She couldn’t risk a mind link. Whoever she linked with might discover her true plans for the Dreamweavers.

  I can’t do anything. I’m stuck with these nightmares forever. Lying down again, she cursed under her breath. Serves me right, she thought. How could I even contemplate asking the Dreamweavers for help when I’m working toward their downfall?

  Mischief made a sad noise, perhaps sensing her mood. She felt him move closer, then the weight of him against her hip as he curled up beside her. His soft breathing gradually slowed. She listened to it for a while, fighting sleep.

  Then she found herself standing under a familiar, heavy black sky…

  11

  The Parade was full of people despite the heat of the morning sun. Their cheering was exhilarating. Reivan moved to join the other Voices’ Companions, her heart beating a little too fast.

  When I am a Companion, experiencing crowds like this will become commonplace, she mused. I wonder how long it will take before it is no longer thrilling.

  The Voices descended the main stairs of the Sanctuary. At the base, four sets of four muscular slaves, each controlled by a slave master, waited beside litters. The Voices separated and stepped onto a litter each. As they settled onto the couches, the slaves hauled the litters onto their shoulders and set off down the thoroughfare.

  The Companions fell into line behind the litters. None spoke. Reivan let out a sigh of relief as she found that, for the first time in a week, nothing was demanding her attention. She was finally free to think.

  Reivan’s days had become hectic and long. Imenja wanted her at her side for part of nearly every day. Sometimes Reivan was only required to observe a meeting or debate, other times she watched as Imenja undertook duties that Reivan would take over once she was given the responsibilities of a Companion. Duties like arranging Imenja’s schedule, accepting or sending gifts or donations, refusing bribes and receiving reports of the tasks given to other Servants.

  At the same time, her training continued. Imenja had claimed all the time Reivan would have spent learning to use her Skills if she’d had any—and more. In the time that remained Reivan studied law, history, and the gods. Fortunately, her early years reading everything in the monastery she had grown up in were proving an advantage, and even Drevva admitted Reivan was more knowledgeable than the average new Servant-novice.

  Reivan stayed up late and rose early. The list of duties she would have to take on as a Companion was so long now that she began to feel overwhelmed.

  “How am I going to do all this?” she had asked Imenja.

  Imenja had smiled. “Delegate.”

  “Give work to others? But how do I know who to trust?”

  “I’ll tell you if they’re not trustworthy, and if I don’t you’ll soon find out who is and who isn’t. I am not going to blame you for someone else’s mistakes.”

  “And if nobody wants to do it?”

  Imenja had laughed. “I think you’ll find plenty of Servants willing and eager to help. Like you, they’re here to serve the gods.”

  “Are you saying I can actually reward people with work?”

  “Yes. So long as you don’t make them see it that way. You are favoring them over others with a task few would be trusted with.”

  There were many rites and ceremonies that a Companion needed to be present at, even though they had no place in the rite. Reivan suspected that they attended in order to fetch and carry if such a need arose. Which was probably why nobody had protested whenever Imenja took her along.

  Today she would attend the Rite of the Sun. She had never observed or participated in the fertility ceremony before. It was for married couples. Rich married couples. Only participants and Servants were present for the whole ceremony, but Voices attended the beginning of the rite.

  The rite was the source of much curiosity for young Pentadrians—and all foreigners—because few ever talked about it. The Servants involved were sworn to protect the privacy of the participants, and participants were rarely willing to describe their experiences. Avvenans, as a people, considered talking of the intimacies of one’s marriage to be crass and impolite.

  This reluctance of Pentadrians to talk about the rite usually spurred foreigners into wild speculation. Reivan had encountered plenty of Sennons during her time mapping the mines in Northern Ithania who believed her people indulged in ritual orgies. She had explained that only married couples attended, but that did not convince foreigners there was nothing lewd about the rite.

  So long as it involves sex, she thought, they’ll think it’s depraved. Sennons are even more prudish than Pentadrians. I wonder if Circlians are the same.

  The curved wall of the Temple of Hrun appeared ahead. Reivan regarded the distant shadows of the arched entrance with longing. It was growing hotter, and she was discovering how uncomfortable her black robes could be in the full glare of the sun.

  She looked enviously at the slaves walking before her, who wore nothing but short trousers. Their tanned skin glittered with droplets of perspiration. A rumor she had heard recently came back to her. One of the freed slaves of the army had married a Servant. She wondered what crime the man had done to earn himself a life of slavery in the first place. Surely the Servant wouldn’t have married him if he was a rapist or murderer.

  Were these men before her guilty of such evil deeds? She eyed them dubiously. Making criminals slaves of the Sanctuary was supposed to be better than imprisoning them in jails. All Servants were Skilled, therefore capable of defending themselves should a slave make troub
le.

  Except me, she thought. I hope my fellow Servants remember that—or that my supporters do and my enemies don’t.

  Imenja’s litter reached the Temple doorway and disappeared inside. The moments before Reivan stepped out of the baking sunlight felt endless. Finally she was walking in cool shadows through a wide arched corridor. A delicious breeze cooled her. She looked ahead and drew in a breath in wonder.

  Lush greenness lay beyond the end of the corridor. Two doors at the end had been opened to reveal a wide circle of grass and plants. A pool sparkled at the center and low garden beds and trees edged the grass. The roof was open to the sky, yet fountains kept the air moist. It was like an oasis in the middle of the desert.

  Reaching the end of the corridor, she followed the slaves along a path that circled the garden, sheltered by a long, curved veranda. Open doors broke the inner wall of the Temple at regular intervals. She estimated that there were more than fifty of them.

  The four litters were carried to the far side of the garden, where they were lowered onto the ground before a raised platform. A Dedicated Servant stepped forward to welcome the Voices.

  As Reivan recognized the man she felt a thrill of pleasure. It was Nekaun, the Dedicated Servant who had welcomed her after she had become a Servant-novice. Only yesterday she had learned that he was among the Dedicated Servants still eligible for the position of First Voice after having their magical strength tested. She watched as he greeted the four Voices and invited them to sit. Four benches were brought for the Voices by Servants. As the other Companions sat on the edge of the platform, Reivan followed suit.

  “Let the Rite of the Sun begin,” Imenja said.

  Nekaun inclined his head then turned to face the garden. He clapped his hands, and from a side door Servants began to file out. As they did they began singing. It was a tune both solemn and joyous, and Reivan made out phrases about love and children. Reivan guessed these were the Servant-guides who would attend to the couples participating in the rite.