Last of the Wilds

by Trudi Canavan

  Eventually she dragged herself to her feet and walked to the metal gate. Grabbing it, she pushed. It did not move. She examined the latch. It was held closed by some kind of metal lock. All was dark beyond it.

  Of course, she thought. Sinking to her knees, she turned to regard the pool and its ridiculous sculpture. This is my prison now. I’m a decoration, like that statue. The staring man will probably come to look at me all the time.

  She crawled to the edge of the pool. There was nowhere shallow to lie. If she tried to sleep in there, she would drown. She would have to wake every few hours and wet her skin, or risk drying out and…She reached down and cupped some water in her hand. Bringing it to her mouth, she sipped.

  Plain water, she thought. I wonder how long it will be before I start to sicken.

  She shook her head. I’m too tired to think about it. Lying down on the cool stone floor, she fell into an exhausted sleep.

  Looking up from her work, Emerahl squinted into the fine rain. A dismal day, she thought. But the captain is happy. We netted a fine catch.

  The high wall of the Toren cliffs loomed over them on the right. They had been much farther out to sea when they had passed the lighthouse the day before. Looking at the distant white tower, Emerahl had expected to feel regret. She had spent so long living in that remote ruin. Instead she felt repelled.

  All those years living in isolation with only lowlife smugglers for neighbors. I don’t know why I didn’t die of boredom. It’s so good to be among decent, hard-working people again.

  Emerahl began to turn back to the fish-gutting but a light caught her eyes and drew her attention back to the cliff. As a fold of the rock face drew back, more lights appeared. This was their destination. Yaril.

  There—so she had been told—lived a young man who had been saved from drowning by The Gull but six months before. She had heard many tales of the mysterious sea boy now. Everyone who lived on the coast knew someone who could relate an encounter with The Gull. These same tales were repeated in every town. Perhaps nobody was related to the heroes and the tellers were just claiming to know them in order to tell a better tale, but these towns were small and it was possible they all knew each other, even if distantly.

  In fact, it was amusing to think of them all linked by these stories.

  Yaril was in plain sight now. To the fishermen it was merely a good place to sell their catch. She turned her attention back to gutting the fish. The captain had only agreed to take her to Yaril if she made herself useful. She didn’t mind the work. It kept her hands busy while she thought about all she’d learned.

  As the boat drew closer to the town, the crew left the preparation of the catch to Emerahl while they navigated into a shallow bay. She hurried through the last of the fish then rose and gathered her belongings. Her clothes stank of fish and her skin was sticky from sweat and salt water. As soon as she was ashore she would book a room and wash herself and her garments.

  The crew guided the boat up to a short jetty. The moment it was close enough, she leapt off. Turning back once, she gave the captain a nod of thanks before striding into Yaril.

  Unlike most of the towns on the coast of Toren, Yaril did not sit at the top of the cliff. Behind the fold in the rock wall a narrow river had worn the sheer drop into a steep, broken slope. Houses had been built on this out of the same stones as the cliffs—right up to the edge of the cascading river.

  It was a town with no roads, just staircases going up and down and narrow paths running across the slope. Emerahl paused to smile at a man walking down the stairs who was staring at her with open curiosity.

  “Good day to you. Would there be lodging for travellers here?”

  The man nodded. “The Widow Laylin has a room for rent. Number three, third level. That’s the next level up. It’s on the right.”

  “Thank you.”

  She continued up the stairs and turned on to one of the narrow walkways. Stopping at a house with a large number three carved into the door, she knocked. The door opened and a large middle-aged woman looked Emerahl up and down.

  “I hear you have a room to let,” Emerahl said. “Is it available?”

  The woman’s eyes brightened. “Yes. Come in. I’ll show it to you. What is your name?”

  “Limma. Limma Curer.”

  “Curer by trade as well as by name,” the woman observed.

  “That’s right.”

  The widow led her into a long, narrow room with a view of the bay. It was simple, but clean. Emerahl haggled the price down to a reasonable rate, then asked for water to wash in.

  The woman sent her daughter away to fetch it, then turned to regard Emerahl with shrewd eyes.

  “So what brings you to Yaril?”

  Emerahl smiled. “I’m looking for a young man named Gherid.”

  “Gherid? We have a Gherid here. Use to fish with his father until all on the boat drowned but he. Now he works for the stonecutter. Is that the one?”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “What you want him for?”

  “I hear he tells an interesting tale.”

  The woman chuckled and shook her head. “Used to. He got fed up with people picking holes in his story and won’t say a word now.”

  “No?”

  “Not a word. Not for money or favors.”

  “Oh.” Emerahl looked around the room as if wondering what she was doing there.

  “You’ve come a long way,” the woman soothed. “You may as well try. Perhaps you’ll get something out of him. I’ll take you to see him when you’re done washing.”

  She left the room and the girl arrived with a pitcher of water and a large bowl soon after. Emerahl washed herself and changed into her second set of clothes, then washed her first set and dried them by drawing magic and using it to warm and stir the air around them.

  When they were dry, Emerahl draped them on a chair, then tied her collection of pouches around her waist, wrapped her tawl about her and left the room.

  The next room was as narrow as hers, but even longer. The space was divided into sections by screens and the farthest proved to be hiding a kitchen. There she found the widow.

  “Ready?” the woman said.

  Emerahl nodded.

  “Come along, then. He’ll be at the stonecutter’s place.”

  She followed the woman to the door, then out into the cold air. The houses, built of the same black stone, seemed to hunch against the rock wall as if afraid they might slide off into the sea below. It gave the town a sinister, anxious look, yet all the people Emerahl and the Widow Laylin passed smiled and greeted them cheerfully.

  The staircase grew steadily steeper as they neared the top of the cliff. The widow had to stop three times to catch her breath.

  “Wouldn’t think I lived here, would you?” she said after the third rest. “You’re doing well enough.”

  Emerahl smiled. “Travelling makes you fit.”

  “Must do. Here we are at last. They live at the top because it’s easier to carry his wares down than to bring them up again.”

  Instead of a road there was a rubble-strewn “yard.” Emerahl followed the woman through this to where two gray haired men were chipping away at large slabs of rock.

  “Megrin,” the Widow said.

  One of the men looked up. He appeared surprised to see Emerahl’s companion.

  “Widow Laylin,” he replied. “Don’t often see you up here. Need any work done?”

  “No, but my guest wants to have a chat with Gherid about The Gull.”

  The man looked at Emerahl and straightened. She smiled as she sensed his admiration. The second man had turned to face them. He had a surprisingly young face, though it was set in a scowl. Emerahl looked closer and had to suppress a laugh. The gray in his hair was dust. He was just old enough to be considered a man.

  “This is Limma,” the widow continued. “She’s a curer.”

  Megrin turned to regard the young man, whose scowl deepened.

  “Why do
you want to talk about The Gull with me?” Gherid asked.

  Emerahl met and held his eyes.

  “I heard you met him.”

  “So?”

  “I would like to hear your story.”

  “Go on, Gherid,” the widow urged. “Don’t be rude to a visitor.”

  He looked at the woman, then the stonecutter. The older man nodded. Gherid sighed and shrugged in resignation. “Come with me…Limma, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  She followed him back to the stairs, then upward. Intense emotions began to spill from him as they climbed. Guilt and fear combined. She caught snatches of his thoughts.

  …I can’t kill her! But I must, if she…

  Alarmed, she hesitated, then drew magic and formed a shield around herself. Why would he think he might have to kill her? Did he think she would try to harm him? Or take something from him? Surely he didn’t think she could force him to give up any information he didn’t want to give.

  I’m a curer. A sorceress. Both might mean I have the power to make him tell me things he doesn’t want to, either through drugs or torture.

  Either way, he obviously had something to protect. They reached the top of the cliff. He walked along the edge, saying nothing. Emerahl watched him closely. She sensed he was taking a precaution of some kind. When they stopped, she realized they had moved past the edge of the town. She now stood above a precipice. Does he plan to push me off?

  “So, what do you want to know?” he asked.

  She met his eyes. “Is it true you’ve met The Gull?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “Everybody knows that.”

  She sensed that he was telling the truth and felt a pang of sympathy for him.

  “Nobody believes you, do they?”

  “And you do?”

  She nodded. “But that’s not why you don’t tell the story any more, is it?”

  He stared at her, his anxiety and guilt increasing. No amount of talking was going to reassure him. She decided to take a gamble.

  “You made a promise,” she stated. “Did you break it?”

  He flushed. She began to guess how it had been for him. Saved by a mythical being and needing to explain what happened, he had told as much of his tale as he knew it was safe to tell, until one day he had let some detail slip that he hadn’t intended.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  She frowned as if in worry. “I don’t want to know, I need to know. The Gull’s secrets must be safe.”

  His eyes widened and he turned pale. “I thought you…They didn’t understand what I told them. I’m sure they didn’t understand.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I…I told them about the Stack. They put something in my drink.” He looked at her pleadingly. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t tell them where it was. You don’t think they can find it on their own, do you?”

  She sighed. “I don’t know. I don’t know where the Stack is. We all end up with different secrets to keep and that was yours. Have you warned him?”

  His eyes widened. “How?”

  She blinked as if surprised. “You don’t have a way to contact him?”

  “No…but I suppose if I went back…but it’s so far away and I don’t have a boat.”

  “Neither do I, but I could buy one.” Shaking her head, she turned toward the sea and pretended to think. “You’d better tell me everything, Gherid. I’m a long way from home and my way of contacting him doesn’t work here. We need to get a message to The Gull. It may be that the only way we can do that is for me to go to the Stack and leave a message for you.”

  The surge of gratitude that spilled from him sent a pang of guilt through her. She was manipulating the poor boy. It’s not like I have malicious intentions, she told herself. I want to find The Gull so we can help each other.

  He moved to a nearby rock to sit down. “It’s a long story. You’d better sit down. Have you sailed a boat before?”

  Emerahl smiled. “Many, many times.”

  21

  Devlem slipped the last slice of fruit into his mouth then licked the sweet juice off his fingers. One of the three servants standing nearby stepped forward and held out a tray made of gold. Taking the neatly folded damp cloth from it, Devlem cleaned his hands, then dropped the cloth back on the tray.

  The sound of running footsteps echoed in the courtyard. A servant raced up to Devlem’s table and bowed.

  “The shipment has arrived.”

  Only two days late, Devlem thought. If I threaten the dyers a little I may make the market before Arlem does—but only if the stock hasn’t spoiled.

  He rose and strode out of the courtyard. An arched corridor took him through to the front of the house. He followed a paved path to the plainer buildings that housed his wares.

  Tarns waited outside. Men were already carrying the large rolls of cloth inside, watched by his overseer.

  Entering the building, Devlem ignored the servants and examined the shipment. The waterproof wrapping of one bolt of cloth was torn.

  “Open it,” he ordered.

  Servants hurried to cut the wrapping away.

  “Careful!” Devlem bellowed. “You’ll damage the cloth!”

  Their movements became slower and more cautious. As they worked they cast nervous glances in his direction. Good, he thought. The whipping I ordered has finally taught them to be more respectful. They were getting more like Genrian women every day, whining and complaining.

  The wrapping parted, revealing clean, undamaged cloth. He moved closer as more began to appear.

  “Master Trader!”

  The room echoed with running footsteps. He glanced up, annoyed at the interruption. The intruder was one of the lawn clippers. She was ugly for an Avven woman and he had sent her out to work in the garden so he didn’t have to look at her.

  “Master,” she panted. “There is a monster in the pool house!”

  He sighed. “Yes. I put it there.”

  She bit her lip. “Oh. It appears to be dead.”

  “Dead?” He straightened in alarm.

  She nodded.

  Cursing in his native Genrian tongue, he strode past her out of the warehouse and hurried toward the gardens. The pool house was at the center of a large lawn. The lawn clippers had gathered in a crowd around the entrance.

  “Get back to work!” he ordered.

  They turned to stare at him, then scattered. As he reached the gate of the house he drew out the key to the lock. Inside, he could see the youngling sea creature lying on the floor.

  He hadn’t had much time to examine his purchase closely last night. The raider had claimed it was a girl child, but the only evidence of that was the lack of male organs. Devlem had ordered his servants to remove the dirty rags that had hung off the creature’s shoulders. Looking her over, he decided the raider was right, and wondered if she’d develop breasts like humans.

  Perhaps, when she was mature, he would purchase a male. If they produced offspring he could sell their young for a fortune.

  The lock clicked. He pushed the gate open and walked over to the creature. Why had she climbed out of the water? Crouching down, he saw that she was still breathing.

  The more he looked at her, the more concerned he grew.

  Her breathing was labored. Her skin was dull and cracked. If she had been human, he would have said she was dangerously thin. She also smelled foul. All animals smelled bad and he had assumed that the reek was natural, but now he wasn’t so sure.

  He took her chin and turned her head so he could examine her face. At the touch her eyes fluttered open, then closed again. She gave a faint moan.

  I paid a lot of money for her. He rose and stared down at her. If she’s sick I need to find someone to cure her. Who will know what’s wrong? I could bring in an animal healer, but I doubt they’ve ever seen one of the sea people before. I doubt anyone has. Unless…

  He smiled as he realized there were people in Glymma who might know about the sea p
eople. Turning away, he quickly locked the gate and hurried toward the house, shouting for a messenger.

  Mirar lifted a rock. Nothing. He put it down again and lifted another. A creature scurried away. He made a grab for it, but it shot straight into a crack between two much larger and heavier boulders.

  Curse it. How does Emerahl catch these shrimmi? If I could just—

  “Wilar! Dreamweaver!”

  He jumped in surprise and looked up. Tyve was circling above him. Mirar caught a powerful feeling of anxiety and urgency from the boy. Standing up, he shaded his eyes and watched the Siyee land.

  “What is it?”

  “Sizzi is sick. So are Veece and Ziti. Others are sickening, too. Can you come to the village? Can you help us?”

  Mirar frowned. “Did the Speaker send you to me?”

  “Yes.”

  This was not entirely the truth, if the uneasiness Mirar sensed in Tyve was any indication. He narrowed his eyes at the young Siyee.

  “Did he really?”

  Tyve shot Mirar a guilty glance. “Not exactly. He is too sick to speak. I suggested to the rest that I ask you for help, since you’re a healer. They agreed.”

  This, Mirar sensed, was the truth. He nodded. “I will come. What are the symptoms?”

  “You’ll see when you get there,” Tyve said impatiently. “We should leave now, if you’re to arrive before…It’s a long way.”

  “Therefore a long way to return to get the right cures,” Mirar pointed out. “I need to know what this illness is so I can pack my bag. Tell me about it.”

  Tyve described what he had seen. As he did, Mirar felt his stomach sink. It sounded like a disease called Hearteater which occasionally spread among landwalkers. Most likely a Siyee had caught it during the war and brought it back to the tribe. Mirar hadn’t considered that diseases might be an inevitable consequence of the Siyee mixing with outsiders. He cursed the White silently.

  You can’t be sure the White knew this would happen, Leiard reminded him.

  But there’s no happiness greater than having someone to blame, Mirar replied.