Last of the Wilds

by Trudi Canavan

  Reivan shook her head. At least I’m not the only person mystified by the gods. Even the Voices don’t know everything about them.

  Mirar stood before the wall of falling water. He reached out and touched the sheet of liquid. The smooth, rippling surface broke around his fingers and cold droplets ran down his bare arms, chilling him.

  Get it done quickly, Leiard suggested.

  Closing his eyes, Mirar leaned forward and plunged his head into the water.

  The water was bone-chilling cold. He scrubbed at his scalp and beard, moving quickly to combat the chill and hasten the rinsing. A step backward and he was back in the air again, water trickling down his bare chest as he straightened.

  Running his hands through his hair, he was pleased to find none of the stickiness of the dye was left. He didn’t relish the thought of ducking into the cold water again. The prospect of it had discouraged him from reapplying the color for several days.

  “Don’t forget your eyebrows,” Emerahl had said. “If people see pale eyebrows and dark hair, they’ll know you’ve been using dye.’ He smiled at the memory as he carefully washed the remaining dye away with water cupped in his hands. She hadn’t said anything about dying the hair on his chest, or anywhere else, but who would see it anyway? Nobody, while Leiard had any say in it.

  A piece of cloth was all he had to dry himself with. He started back into the cave, rubbing at his skin to warm it.

  “Wilar?”

  He stopped and turned back to the fall. The voice was familiar. A Siyee was silhouetted in the entrance.

  “Reet?”

  “It is Tyve.”

  The brother, Mirar thought. They sound so alike. “Give me a moment,” he called.

  He hurried into the cave, quickly finished dressing, then returned to the fall with his bag of cures. A young Siyee male was waiting at the gap between the edge of the fall and the rock wall. He grinned as Mirar appeared.

  “Have we come at a bad time?”

  “No,” Mirar assured him. “Your company is always welcome.”

  The Siyee hid a smile. Their language had come back to Mirar quickly, but he did not always understand the words or phrases they used. He suspected he used an old-fashioned way of speaking that they found amusing, and that the puzzling phrases and words they used were recent inventions of the last century or so.

  He’d met the pair some weeks ago, giving them the explanation he and Emerahl had come up with: he had agreed to meet her here and she had communicated the way to the cave via dream links, but when he arrived she had already left.

  They understood what a Dreamweaver was. He was pleased to learn that the Siyee still remembered Mirar through stories in which he was a benevolent healer and wise man. To his amusement, they assumed all Dreamweavers were male and magically powerful.

  He and Tyve walked out from behind the fall and down to the edge of the pool, where another young Siyee was waiting.

  “Greetings, Wilar. I brought you some food,” Reet said, holding up a small bag.

  “Thank you,” Mirar replied. He lifted his bag. “Have you come for more cures?”

  “Yes. Sizzi says your remedy worked. She wants some more. Speaker Veece’s joints are paining him now that it’s getting colder. Do you have anything that would help?”

  Mirar smiled. “He didn’t tell you to ask, did he? You’re asking for his sake.”

  Reet grinned. “He’s too proud to ask for help, but not so proud he doesn’t complain about it all the time.”

  Sitting down on a rock, Mirar opened his bag and considered the contents. “I’ll have to make something up. I have the wound powder and pain ease here.” He drew out a carved wooden jar and a small bag of pellets. “The pain ease is in the bag. Use no more than four a day, and never more than two at once.”

  Reet took the bag and jar and stowed them in a pouch strapped to his chest. Mirar picked up the bag of food. It was surprisingly heavy, and he heard the faint sound of liquid sloshing inside.

  “Is there…ah!” He drew out a skin of Teepi.

  “A gift from Sizzi,” Tyve explained.

  Mirar regarded the two Siyee. “Are you in a hurry to return?”

  They shook their heads and grinned. Unplugging the skin, Mirar took a sip of the liqueur. A tart, nutty flavor filled his mouth. He swallowed, savoring the warmth that filled his stomach and began to spread to his limbs. He handed the skin to Tyve.

  “Any news?” he asked.

  Tyve drank and handed the skin to Reet. “Priests have reached the Open. They’re going to teach the Siyee who want to become priests and priestesses.”

  Mirar sighed. The Siyee had been free from all but Huan’s influence for centuries, and the goddess hadn’t meddled in their lives much since she had finished creating them. Once the Siyee had priests and priestesses they would be encouraged to worship all five gods, some of which were more inclined to mess about with people’s lives.

  “You don’t look pleased to hear it,” Reet observed.

  Mirar looked at the young man, then shook his head. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I…I don’t like the thought of the Siyee being ruled by the gods, and their landwalker servants.”

  Tyve frowned. “You think that is what will happen?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Is this a bad thing?” Reet asked, shrugging. “The gods can protect us.”

  “You were safer when you were apart from the rest of the world.”

  “The world invaded us,” Reet reminded him.

  “Ah, you’re right. The Toren settlers did, in their fashion. I guess you could not have remained separate or safe forever.”

  “You do not worship the gods?” Tyve asked.

  Mirar took the skin from Reet and put it aside. He shook his head. “No. Dreamweavers do not serve gods. They help people. The gods…don’t like that.”

  “Why not?”

  “They like to be worshipped, to control all mortals. They don’t like that Dreamweavers don’t worship or obey them. When we help others, they think we reduce their influence on those we help.”

  Tyve frowned. “Do they punish you for it?”

  Memories of crushing stone and a crippled body crept close. Mirar pushed them away. “They ordered Juran of the White to kill our leader. At their urging, Circlians turned against Dreamweavers. Many were killed. Though this does not happen now, those few of my people who brave the life of a Dreamweaver are scorned and persecuted by Circlians everywhere.”

  The two Siyee regarded Mirar in dismay. “The Circlians are our allies,” Tyve said. There was neither defensiveness nor alarm in his voice. “If you’re an enemy of the Circlians, then are you our enemy, too?”

  “That is up to your people to decide,” Mirar said, looking away. “Most likely this alliance will do your people much good. I would not sow doubts in your minds.”

  Liar, Leiard accused, his voice a whisper in the back of Mirar’s mind.

  “Why don’t you worship the gods?” Reet asked.

  “For several reasons,” Mirar told him. “Partly it is because we feel we should have a choice in the matter. Partly it is because we know the gods are not as good and benign as they would like mortals to believe they are.” Mirar shook his head. “I could tell you of the exploits of the gods in the past, before their war reduced them to five, that would make your skin turn cold.”

  Just exploits of the five remaining gods, in their bad old days? Leiard asked.

  No, Mirar replied. That would be too obvious. I’ll mix them with stories of other gods.

  “Tell us,” Tyve said seriously. “We should know, if we are going to be ruled by them.”

  “You might not like what you hear,” Mirar warned.

  “That depends whether we believe you or not. Old tales are usually just exaggerations of the truth,” Reet said wisely.

  “These are not stories. They are memories,” Mirar corrected. “We Dreamweavers pass on our memories to our students and each
other. What I tell you is not an exaggeration or embellishment, but true recollections of people long dead.”

  Or not so dead, Leiard added.

  Mirar paused. Are you admitting I am the owner of this body?

  There was no answer. The two Siyee were watching him intently. He could sense their curiosity. What am I doing? he thought. If these tales spread among the Siyee, the gods will take note of them and seek the source.

  Stories were powerful. They could teach caution. The thought of Siyee becoming priests and priestesses and of the gods controlling and changing them spurred him on. They should not accept such a fate without knowing some of the truth.

  “I will tell you tales of dead gods as well as those of the Circle,” he said. “Have you ever heard of the whores of Ayetha?”

  The young men’s eyes brightened with interest. “No.”

  “Ayetha was a city in what is now Genria. The most popular god or goddess of that city was…no, I will not speak her name. The people built a temple for her. She held power over them through an exchange of favors. Any family that needed her help must surrender a child to the temple. That child—male or female—was taught the arts of prostitution and made to serve those who came and donated money to the Temple. They did not even need to be full grown to begin service. If they ever tried to leave their temple, they were hunted down and killed. The babes born of these women…they were sacrificed to this goddess.”

  The interest in the young men’s eyes had changed to horror.

  “This was before the War of the Gods?” Reet asked.

  “Yes.” Mirar paused. “Do you wish to hear more?”

  The pair exchanged glances, then Tyve nodded. Mirar considered their grim, determined expressions, then continued.

  “She was not the only god to abuse her followers. One seduced young girls from all over Ithania. Some parents feared him and kept their daughters hidden, but in vain as the gods can see the minds of all people, everywhere. Others valued the regard of a god too much and foolishly dreamed their own child might be chosen.

  “This god favored innocence and craved complete devotion. When he found a girl who fulfilled his requirements, he pleasured them with magic in a way that left them unmoved by ordinary physical sensation. They lost interest in eating and neglected themselves.

  “Innocence dies easily and the girls inevitably questioned what had been done to them. When they did, he abandoned them. They did not live long after. Some killed themselves, some starved, some became addicted to pleasure drugs. I tended some of these girls, and was never able to save one.”

  “You?” Tyve asked. “Surely this was before the War of the Gods, too.”

  Mirar shook his head. “I’m sorry. I was speaking as the one whose memory I have called upon.”

  Reet was frowning. “It is strange.”

  “What is?”

  “The gods…they are not physical beings. Why would one want…” He flushed. “…girls.”

  “There are many tales of the gods falling in love or lusting after mortals. They may be beings of magic, but they crave physical closeness. There was a famous tale of a goddess—old even a thousand years ago—who fell in love with a mortal, and struck down any woman he happened to see and feel the briefest admiration for. Eventually he went mad and killed himself.”

  “So if they feel love, do they feel hate?”

  Mirar nodded. “Oh, yes. You would never have heard of the Velians. That is because one of the gods hated them so much he had his followers slaughter them, right to the last half-breed child. It took centuries, but he destroyed that race completely.”

  Tyve shuddered. “If the gods can destroy a whole people, it would not be wise to become their enemy.”

  “You do not have to be their enemy to suffer from their meddling. The Dunwayans were a peaceful race of farmers and fishermen until a war god decided to turn them into warriors. A long century of starvation followed because so many of them had become fighters that too few were growing crops or raising stock. Many thousands died.”

  “Not all gods are bad, though,” Reet pointed out.

  “No,” Mirar agreed. “There were some good ones. Like Iria, the goddess of the sky. She could be called upon to predict the seasons, and would appear to warn of unfavorable weather or impending disasters. There was a sea god, Svarlen, who helped sailors navigate or warned them of storms. And Kem, the beggar god, whose followers cared for those without homes or anyone to care for them. It was a terrible thing, losing them.”

  “They died in the war.” Tyve frowned. “Who killed them?”

  Mirar held the young man’s eyes for a short while before answering.

  “Who knows? The victors, perhaps.”

  Slowly Tyve’s face changed as he comprehended what that meant.

  “The five,” he gasped. “Surely not! These good gods must have been killed earlier in the war by someone else. The five might have killed their killers.”

  “That is possible,” Mirar agreed. “It is also possible that one or more of the five killed them.”

  “They wouldn’t have,” Tyve insisted. “They are good. If they were evil, the world would be a terrible place. It is peaceful now…it is in Northern Ithania, anyway.”

  Mirar smiled. “Then we are all safe,” he said. “But remember this: two of the first gods I mentioned—the ones whose abuses I listed—are still with us. Perhaps they have changed their ways, but knowing what I know I will never trust them to have mortals’ best interests at heart.”

  The pair looked distressed. Mirar felt a pang of guilt. Is it fair of me to shatter their illusions about the gods? What choice do they have?

  He picked up the skin and handed it to Tyve. “Drink, and forget what I’ve told you. It is all in the distant past. As you said, we are in better times now. That is all that matters.”

  19

  Once the servants had left her rooms, Auraya began to pace. In a few hours she would be in the air, heading to Si. There were only a few arrangements to make before she was free to go.

  Mischief romped around the room, infected by her excitement. She hoped this burst of energy would tire him out and keep him quiet later. As a presence touched the edge of her senses, she glanced at the veez. He didn’t react. As far as she could tell, he was completely unaware of Chaia’s visits.

  :Are you ready? Chaia asked.

  :Yes. I’ve been up since dawn, driving my servants to distraction.

  :That’s unlikely. You’re taking little with you, so there was barely any packing for them to do. They did not even dress your hair.

  :No point, she replied, touching the clasp that bound her hair into a tail. It will only come out in the wind.

  :You could protect it from the wind with magic.

  :I like the feel of the wind.

  :I like how you look with your hair dressed.

  She felt a flush of pleasure at the compliment.

  :It is a mere physical detail. You cannot see it, she pointed out

  :I see it through the eyes of others.

  :Ah, she replied. Do you like it because they do, or—

  A furry shape leapt onto the table. She turned in time to see the veez seize a circular object in its teeth.

  “Mischief!” she gasped, leaping toward him. “Put that down!”

  The veez’s ears flattened against his head. He evaded her easily, jumped off the table and darted behind a chair. She followed and found him crouching in the narrow gap between the chair and the wall, staring at her defiantly.

  “Mnn,” he said around the ring.

  “Not yours,” she said firmly. She held out her hand. “Give it to me.”

  “Nf yrs,” the veez mumbled. Mine! he sent telepathically, giving up on trying to vocalize around the ring.

  “Give,” she ordered. “Now.”

  The veez blinked at her. She shuffled forward and reached toward him. As she expected, he darted away, behind another chair.

  She stood up and sighed. Testing her li
ke this was his current bad habit. Mairae assured her all veez did this and eventually grew bored with the game, but in the meantime Mischief’s behavior was annoying. Most of the time Auraya managed to ignore it, but this morning she didn’t have the time to indulge him.

  He was moving around the room now, avoiding her. She did not like to use magic on him. It was always better to use persuasion.

  “Give Auraya ring or Mischief no fly,” she said.

  There was a pause, then a muffled word. He did not emerge.

  I have used that threat before, she thought ruefully.

  “Auraya go away,” she said. “Not take Mischief. Leave Mischief alone long time.”

  The pause was longer, then there was a whimper that twisted her heart, and he came bounding out. He raced across the room, ran up her circ and wrapped himself around her neck.

  She held out her hand. The ring dropped into it. Mischief’s head drooped onto her shoulder and he sighed.

  “Owaya stay.”

  “Auraya and Mischief fly,” she said.

  “Fly now?”

  “Later.”

  She moved to a chair and sat down. At once he climbed down into her lap and demanded scratches. As she obliged him with one hand she held up the ring in the other. Abruptly she remembered Chaia. She could still sense him.

  :Sorry about that.

  She felt a wave of amusement from him.

  :I am used to interruptions, he replied.

  She considered the ring.

  :What happened to the old ring? she asked Chaia.

  :The Pentadrians still have it. They do not completely understand its properties, or they would have used it against you.

  She shuddered at the thought. It had been bad enough witnessing the Siyee spy harried out of the sky by the Pentadrians’ black birds into the enemy’s midst. She could imagine how much worse it could have been. If the wearer was tortured, for example. She did not have to watch, but knowing that something like that was occurring because of her would be awful.

  :Can you destroy the ring? she asked.

  :Only through another. Its power will diminish eventually.