Last of the Wilds

by Trudi Canavan

  She reappeared sooner than he expected, but her hands were overflowing with sea bells. Silse awkwardly began trying to explain to her about the bag’s use. She ignored him. Tipping the bells onto the deck, she grabbed the bag and disappeared into the depths again.

  Silse looked up at Erra and shrugged.

  The crew began to lounge about. A few started a game of counters. The girl came to the surface about three or four times to take another breath. Each time the bag was emptied into the basket and handed back.

  After the fourth time, Erra decided his idea was working well. He may as well have a drink and enjoy himself. He looked for the youngest of his crew, Darm, and found the boy was at the top of the mast.

  “Darm!” he bellowed.

  The boy started. “Yes capt’n?”

  “Get down here.”

  The boy uncurled his thin legs from the mast and began to climb down. Erra reached into his pocket for some smokewood.

  “Capt’n?”

  Erra looked up. The boy had stopped halfway down the mast and was pointing toward the bluff at one side of the bay.

  “Sails,” he said. “Someone’s coming.”

  At once all the crew were on their feet. Erra moved toward the mast, determined to have a look himself, but he didn’t need to. The bow of a ship was now gliding into sight beyond the bluff.

  It was a battered but sturdy trading vessel, larger than the fishing boats. Erra narrowed his eyes. He could just see men on board, lined up along the side. As the rest of the ship came in sight, the strangers all raised their arms and waved.

  Erra felt his stomach drop. They were waving swords.

  “Raiders!” Darm yelled.

  Erra cursed. Even if the sails had been hoisted and they hadn’t been cornered in the bay, his boats could never have outrun the ship. They would have to abandon them—but perhaps not their hoard. He turned to the crew. They looked pale and ready to bolt.

  “We’ve got to swim for shore!” one cried.

  “No!” Erra bellowed. “Not yet. We’ve got a bit of time before they get here.” He pointed to the baskets of sea bells. “Bind them closed, tie on weights and throw them in. Then we’ll swim for it. Anyone who doesn’t help, doesn’t get a coin.”

  A flurry of activity followed. With heart pounding, Erra grabbed anything that would do as a weight and roped it to the baskets. He bullied the crew with feigned confidence. Two baskets splashed into the water, then another. They sank into the depths.

  “They’re coming fast!” Darm wailed. “We won’t make it to shore!”

  Erra straightened to look. The ship was approaching quickly. He judged the distance they had to swim.

  “Right. Leave the rest. They’ll want to feel they got something, or they’ll come after us for sport. Swim!”

  Not waiting for the others to follow, he dove into the water. Fear lent him strength and speed. When he finally reached the sand he dragged himself upright and glanced back. The ship was bearing down on the boats. His crew were emerging from the water. He cursed then started running toward the forest.

  Only later, when he stared down at the smoking hulls of the boats from a rocky bluff, did he remember the sea girl. Had she been smart enough to hide or escape, or had they found her? He sent Silse back to look, but the swimmer found no sign of her. Only the cut end of the rope.

  The small pang of guilt Erra felt was easily brushed aside. He had more important things to worry about now.

  Like how he was going to get off this island.

  The leaden sky leeched everything of color—except the blood.

  The faces of the corpses were white, the hair either black or a bleached non-color. The weapons, still clutched in stiffened hands or wedged in flesh, lacked shine. The circs of the priests were a dull white.

  But the stains on them were luridly bright. Thick crimson oozed from wounds and slicked blades. Pools of it gathered under the dead like a morbid carpet. Trickles of it flowed down folds in the earth. It gathered to form streams. Pooled. Soaked into the soil, so that it bubbled to the surface at every step.

  Auraya tried to walk gently, tried to keep to the dry areas, but the blood welled up to coat her sandalled feet. The sickening mud sucked at her feet. She took a few more steps then found she could not move. The mud clung to her shoes. It gave beneath her. She felt herself sinking into it. Leaning on one leg to try and free the other only sent her deeper. She felt the cold moisture creeping up her legs and her heart began to race.

  “You killed us,” hissed a voice.

  She looked up to see corpses raising their heads to stare at her with dead eyes.

  Not now, she thought. I’ve got enough problems.

  “You,” another said, his partly severed head lolling on the ground. “You did this to me.”

  She tried not to hear the voices, concentrating instead on getting free of the mud, which did not want to let her go. Red bubbles and froth foamed the surface. She leaned forward, desperately trying to find something to grab hold of to stop herself sinking. Something to use to lever herself out.

  I’m going to drown, she thought, and fear surged up within her. I’m going to suffocate, my mouth and lungs full of bloodied soil.

  There was nothing but a sea of corpses reaching out to her with clawed hands. She shrank away, felt herself sink further, then forced herself to reach out to them.

  “It’s your fault I’m dead,” a woman hissed.

  “Your fault!”

  “Yours!”

  :No.

  Everything stilled. The corpses froze in position. The sucking of the mud stopped. Auraya peered around in confusion. The corpses’ eyes swivelled about in search of the voice.

  This doesn’t usually happen, she mused.

  :It is not her fault you are dead. If you must blame someone, blame me. Either way, you are wrong. Neither Auraya nor I dealt the blow that killed you.

  A shining figure appeared. The corpses rolled or shrank away from him. He looked down at Auraya and smiled.

  :Hello, Auraya.

  “Chaia!”

  :Yes.

  He walked to the edge of the mud and held out a hand. She hesitated, then reached out to take it. Firm, warm fingers gripped her own. He pulled, and she felt the mud relinquish its hold on her legs.

  :Let’s return to your room, he said.

  The battlefield vanished. Suddenly she was sitting on her bed, Chaia beside her. He smiled and reached out to her face. The touch of his fingers as he traced them along her jaw sent a shiver down her spine. He leaned toward her, and she knew he was going to kiss her.

  Uh oh, she thought, drawing away. It’s all very well conjuring him up to rescue me from the nightmare, but dreaming up erotic encounters is definitely going too far.

  :You resist. You think this is wrong. Disrespectful.

  “Yes.”

  He smiled.

  :But how can it be disrespectful, when I am the one kissing you?

  “You’re not real. The real Chaia might be offended.”

  :I’m not real? His smile widened. Are you sure?

  “Yes. The real Chaia can’t touch me.”

  :I can in dreams.

  As Leiard had, she thought. The memory of him brought an uncomfortable rush of different emotions. Pain at his betrayal. Shame that she had taken to bed someone whom this god probably didn’t approve of. And despite this: longing. Her dream links with Leiard had seemed utterly real. She felt a flush of remembered pleasure, quickly followed by embarrassment and shame again as she remembered whose presence she was in—even if he was only a dream shadow of the god.

  :Do not regret your past, Chaia told her. Everything you do teaches you something about the world and yourself. It is up to you to draw wisdom from your mistakes.

  She considered him warily. He was so forgiving. But of course he was. This wasn’t Chaia. The real Chaia would…what? Scold her like a child?

  Chaia laughed.

  :Still convinced I’m a dream?


  “Yes.”

  He slid his hand behind her neck and leaned close.

  :Open your eyes.

  She stared at him. “What if I dream of opening my—”

  He sealed her mouth with his. She stiffened with surprise. Suddenly he and her room disappeared. She was lying down, covered in blankets. In her bed. She saw only darkness. Her eyes were closed.

  Awake.

  But her lips tingled. She opened her eyes. A luminous face hovered over hers. The mouth widened into a smile. One eye winked.

  Then the apparition vanished.

  PART TWO

  16

  A salty breeze told Emerahl she was approaching the coast long before she saw the sea. Yet it was only when she crested a rise and saw the wide gray strip of water in the distance that she felt she was close to her destination.

  At the sight of water, she sighed with relief. She sat down on a fallen log while she caught her breath. Two months of walking had made her lean and given her stamina, but the hill she stood upon was steep and it had been a long, relentless climb to get to this place.

  Rozea wouldn’t recognize me now, she thought. It was not just her age that she had changed. She kept her hair dyed black now and wove it into a simple braid each morning. The dress she had on was plain and practical and over it she wore an eclectic mix of tawls, drapes, beaded jewellery and embroidered pouches. The aromas of herbs, essences and other ingredients for her cures surrounded her.

  It had never been necessary to mention her trade to anyone. She simply entered a village or town, enquired of the first person she met if there was safe and decent accommodation to be found, and by the time she had settled into the suggested place the first customer arrived.

  Most of the time, anyway. There had always been, and always would be, places where strangers were treated with suspicion, and healer sorceresses with outright hostility. The first priest she had met had been unfriendly, which hadn’t helped to ease her fear of being found by the gods. To her relief he had simply ordered her out of his village. For days afterward she had expected to find herself being hunted again, but nobody had followed her.

  However, in most places she was welcome. Village priests and priestesses did not usually have strong Gifts or more than a basic knowledge of healing. The best of their healers worked in cities, and Dreamweavers were rare, so there was a great demand for her services. Having the appearance of a thirty-to forty-year-old woman also helped—nobody would have believed she had much healing knowledge if she’d remained a beautiful young woman.

  The road ahead wove in and out of sight behind hills and forests. She traced it to the sea’s edge. Buildings clustered around the middle of a bay like stones in the bottom of a bucket. According to the owners of journey houses, helpful drinking companions, and a copy of a rough map given to her by a trader, this port was called Dufin.

  It had grown and prospered in the last forty years due to its position near the Si border. Or rather, due to the Toren people’s inclination to ignore the border and settle wherever they saw good fertile soil or mineral deposits. The “inlanders” she had spoken to had told her gleefully how the White had forced the Toren king to order his people out of Si. It would be interesting to see what effect—if any—these orders had made on the people of Dufin.

  Hearing a sound behind her, she turned to regard the road. A single arem was pulling a small tarn up the hill toward her. She stood up. Though the driver was too far away for her to read his expression, she was sure he was staring up at her. She could sense his curiosity.

  She considered how far away he was, the lateness of the hour and the distance between her and Dufin. Sitting down, she waited for the tarn to reach her.

  It took several minutes. Long before then, when the driver was close enough to see, she had exchanged a smile and a wave. As the arem hauled the tarn up to the rise, Emerahl stood up and greeted the man.

  He was in his forties, she judged. His weathered face was pleasant—plenty of smile wrinkles. He pulled the arem to a stop.

  “Are you going to Dufin?” she asked.

  “I am,” he replied.

  “Have you room for a tired traveller?”

  “I always make room for fine young women in need of transportation,” he said jovially.

  She cast about, as if looking for another. “Where is this woman you speak of? And how selfish of you to leave a tired old woman by the side of the road in favor of a more youthful companion.”

  He laughed, then gestured to the tarn. “It is no grand covered platten, but if you don’t mind the smell you could sit on the furs.”

  She smiled in gratitude, then climbed on board. As soon as she had settled onto the furs he urged the arem into a walk again. There was a distinctly fishy smell underlying the animal odor of the furs.

  “I am Limma Curer,” she told him. “A healer.”

  He glanced back at her, his eyebrows rising. “And a sorceress, I guess. No ordinary woman travels these parts alone.”

  “A fighting woman might.” She grinned and shook her head. “But I am no warrior. Who might you be, then?”

  “Marin Hookmaker. Fisherman.”

  “Ah,” she said. “I thought I could smell fish. Let me guess: you deliver fish to inlanders and bring back furs and…” she looked at the rest of the tarn’s contents “…vegetables, drink, wood, pottery and—ah—a pair of girri for dinner.”

  Marin nodded. “That’s right. Makes a nice change for me and the inland folk.”

  “I used to live by the sea,” she told him. “Caught my own dinner plenty of times.”

  “Where’d you live?”

  “A remote place. Didn’t have a name. I hated it. Too far from anything. I left and travelled to many places and learned my trade. But I always like to be near the sea.”

  “What brings you to Dufin?”

  “Curiosity,” she replied. “Work.” She paused. Should she begin her search for The Gull now? “I’ve heard a story. An old story. I want to discover if it is true.”

  “Oh? What story is that?”

  “It’s a story about a boy. A boy who never ages. Who knows everything there is to know about the sea.”

  “Ah,” Marin said, the sound more like a sigh than a word. “That is an old story.”

  “Do you know it?”

  He shrugged. “There are many, many stories about The Gull. Stories of him saving men from drowning. Stories of him drowning men himself. He is like the sea itself: both kind and cruel.”

  “Do you believe he exists?”

  “No, but I know people who do. They claim to have seen him.”

  “Tall tales? Stories of old folk grown fanciful in their retelling?”

  “Probably.” Marin frowned. “I’ve never known Old Grim to tell something any way but as it was, and he says he crewed with The Gull as a boy.”

  “I’d like to meet Old Grim.”

  “I can arrange that. You might not like him, though.” Marin looked back at her and grimaced. “He has a foul mouth.”

  She chuckled. “I can handle that. I’ve heard some words come out of the mouths of women in childbirth that would burn the ears of most folk.”

  He nodded. “So have I. My wife’s a quiet one most of the time, but when she’s in a fury…” He shuddered. “Then you know she’s a fisherman’s daughter.”

  They had reached the bottom of the hill now. Marin was silent for a while, then he gave her another fleeting glance.

  “So you want to discover if The Gull exists. What would it take for you to believe in him?”

  “I don’t know. To meet him, perhaps.”

  He laughed. “That would prove it.”

  “Do you think it’s likely I’ll meet him?”

  “No. What would you do if you did?”

  “Ask him about cures. There are many cures that come from the sea.”

  “Of course.”

  “I might never find him, but I’ve got plenty of time. So long as there are people there are alw
ays people who need cures. I’ll work my way along the coast, perhaps buy passage on ships.”

  “Most likely you’ll meet some lucky man, have lots of pretty children and forget all about The Gull.”

  She grimaced. “Hmph! I’ve had enough of foolish romance.”

  He chuckled. “Have you, then?”

  “Yes,” she said firmly. As the tarn turned between two smaller hills and the buildings of Dufin came into sight, Emerahl shifted into a more comfortable position.

  “So tell me some of these stories about The Gull,” she prompted.

  Marin, as she’d guessed, was happy to oblige.

  Auraya leaned against the window frame and looked down. The Temple grounds were striped and patched with the long shadows cast by the late afternoon sun. Where the rays touched the gardens they set bright drifts of autumn leaves glowing. Juran, as First of the White, occupied the rooms of the Tower’s topmost floor. The view was little different to her own, the extra height only giving a slightly greater vista.

  “Try this,” Juran murmured.

  She turned away and accepted a goblet from Juran. Inside was a pale yellow liquid. As she sipped a familiar tartness filled her mouth, followed by the flavor of spices.

  “It tastes a little like Teepi,” she said.

  Juran nodded. “It is made from the berries of the same tree the Siyee use to make Teepi. When the first Toren settlers entered Si, the Siyee treated them as visitors. The Toren took particular interest in Teepi, and learned to make a stronger version of their own.”

  As he handed the other White glasses of the drink, they each took a sip. Dyara grimaced, Mairae smiled, and Rian, who had no liking for intoxicating drinks, shrugged and set the glass aside.

  “It’s simpler,” Auraya said. “There’s no flavor of nuts or wood.”

  “They brew it in bottles, not barrels. Which is just as well. Wood is scarce in Toren.”

  “So they plan to continue making it?”

  “Yes. One of the more enterprising of the settlers took a few bottles to Aime. The wealthy have acquired a taste for it, and since there’s not much about it is selling for a high price. Many of the settlers brought cuttings and saplings of the tree back with them, which are also selling for a high price.”