Voice of the Gods

by Trudi Canavan

  News of the most recent murder of a Dreamweaver and disappearance of his student had left her angry and disappointed. She had known and respected the Dreamweaver, though she did not remember much about his student. Danjin knew she was frustrated. They had hoped that by watching people around the hospice she would be able to prevent such crimes. Ella’s expression while watching had grown more intense since the Dreamweaver’s murder.

  Reaching the top of the stairs, Danjin walked to the last door and knocked. There was a click and the door swung inward. Ella was sitting by the window as usual.

  “Come in, Danjin Spear,” Ella said.

  Closing the door, Danjin turned to find Ella rubbing her temples.

  “You look pained, Ellareen of the White.”

  She grimaced. “All this mind-reading is disorientating.” She straightened. “I have come to a few conclusions. Sit down and tell me what you think.”

  He settled onto a chunky wooden chair made only slightly less uncomfortable by a few mean cushions. She looked out of the window again and her eyes narrowed. “Remember how I said that the murderer we questioned not only hated Dreamweavers, but he feared them? I’ve been looking for what people fear about the Dreamweavers. It’s been interesting. They don’t fear individual Dreamweavers, nor Dreamweavers in general. Dreamweavers have always been too few in number and lacking in influence or ambition to be a threat. What people fear is that this will change.” She looked at Danjin. “They fear that Mirar’s return will make the Dreamweavers dangerous.”

  “So when this rumor dies the hospice will be safe again.”

  Ella shook her head. “It won’t die. Mirar has returned.”

  He stared at her in shock. Mirar, the immortal leader of the Dreamweavers, alive? Now he could understand how those who believed the rumor must feel. Who would not feel a stirring of fear at the knowledge that the legendary immortal enemy of the gods still lived? To be immortal, a sorcerer must be immensely Gifted. Juran, the most powerful of the Gods’ Chosen, had been given the task of executing Mirar. All believed he had succeeded. Had that been a lie, or had Juran been deceived?

  “How did he survive?” he asked Ella.

  “Mirar was buried and his body crushed, but with his healing magic he nurtured enough of himself that he was able to recover later. He suppressed his own knowledge of his true identity, and was able to hide from the gods.”

  Hidden for a century. Waiting for his chance to…to what?

  “Why reveal himself now?” Danjin asked, as much to himself as to Ella. “Did he mean to?”

  Ella smiled. “No.”

  “What happened?”

  She looked away. “I’m not free to tell you that. Yet.”

  Danjin smiled and nodded. “But there is more to tell.” He would consider that later. For now he could only give her advice based on the information she had given him. “Most people will not be sure if the rumor is true or not,” he said, thinking aloud. “Your concern is with those who believe it and hate the idea so passionately that they attack Dreamweavers and the hospice.”

  She nodded. “People fear Mirar deeply. Some even fear to seek Dreamweaver help in case the one they encounter turns out to be Mirar. Perhaps we could have artisans paint pictures of him so people know that the Dreamweaver they consult is just an ordinary man.”

  “The people who visit the hospice are not the people you need to be concerned with,” he pointed out. “I doubt the troublemakers would ever consider seeking Dreamweaver help. You said people feared a change in the Dreamweavers under Mirar’s influence. That is the fear that drives them to kill.”

  “How can I fight that?” she asked, frowning. “I could tell them that we’ll easily be able to stop the Dreamweavers if they turn on us, but why would they believe me? If they had any faith in us they wouldn’t be attacking anyone now.”

  “It helps, sometimes, to remind people they’re safe. A little reassurance now and then never goes astray.”

  Her frown faded and she looked thoughtful. “Won’t it seem as if we expect the Dreamweavers to turn on us if we say we’re ready for it?”

  “Maybe. Maybe it isn’t a bad thing that they’re becoming more suspicious of Dreamweavers. I might have suggested you find a way to reassure people that Mirar can’t or won’t influence Dreamweavers, but I fear that would be foolish. I expect Mirar will take control of his people again.”

  Ella scowled. “He won’t live that long.”

  Her confidence was both reassuring and disturbing. “I’m glad to hear it.” He paused. “And perhaps this is what people need to hear…unless there is a chance his execution will fail again.”

  She looked at him, her eyes dark.

  “It won’t. Unless he can rejuvenate his body from ashes.” The corner of her mouth twitched. “But we have to find him first, so we’d best not mention killing him just yet.”

  8

  Outside the cave the tops of the trees glowed with the last rays of the sun. Emerahl set her back to the rock wall, far enough away from the waterfall that her clothes wouldn’t end up saturated from the spray.

  It was the same place she and Mirar had once rested and discussed their futures. At the time she had been full of optimism at the idea of searching out other immortals. Mirar had been struggling to acknowledge the part of him that was Leiard. The part that loved Auraya.

  A good thing he hadn’t known then that she doesn’t return that love, Emerahl thought. It would have made it much more difficult for him to accept the fragment of his personality he’d created. Why accept Leiard if it meant suffering a broken heart?

  He was whole now. Stronger. He could cope with the bad news that Chaia had been Auraya’s lover. At least she hoped he could. There was a small danger he’d fragment into a split persona again.

  Auraya probably hadn’t considered that. Or maybe she had. Maybe this was why she was reluctant to tell Mirar.

  Emerahl sighed. She had meant what she had said to Auraya. Put in the same situation, Emerahl would probably feel the same way about Mirar. She’d feel distrustful of any lingering feelings she had for someone who had turned out to not be who she thought he was. Even the prospect of meeting that man would make her wary. What else would prove to be untrue?

  While Leiard was a part of Mirar, he would never again exist as the man Auraya had known. What had she said? “I can’t turn from the little I have left of my life for a made-up piece of a person buried somewhere within a man I don’t know.”

  Beneath the defensiveness there had been something raw. Emerahl drew in a sharp breath as she realized what it was.

  She’s actually grieving for Leiard. To her he is dead. And she feels tricked and cheated for having fallen in love with an illusion. Why didn’t I see that before?

  It had turned into a big mess that did neither Auraya nor Mirar any good. Even without all this complication, the chances of Auraya and Mirar being happy together weren’t great. Auraya was still loyal to the gods (and while Emerahl thought little of this, she had to allow the woman had the right to follow the gods if it pleased her). Mirar hated them and the feeling was mutual.

  The sooner those two were relieved of the source of their misery, the better. It would hurt Mirar more, but he’d got over unrequited love plenty of times before. Auraya would recover from her grief for Leiard more easily without him reminding her of what she’d lost.

  Emerahl sighed. I was hoping Auraya felt something for Mirar so we immortals could feel a little safer. She chuckled. Making her hate me certainly isn’t going to do us any good. I should be more sympathetic.

  She shifted into a more comfortable position. Closing her eyes, she let herself sink toward sleep. The pull toward full unconsciousness was strong, but she resisted.

  :Mirar, she called.

  There was no answer. It was early evening where he was and he probably hadn’t retired to bed yet. She turned her thoughts toward other minds.

  :Tamun. Surim.

  :Yes, Emerahl?

 
Sometimes The Twins spoke as one during links. It was disconcerting. The pair were so different in nature. The impression they gave when united like this was of a personality more complicated than an ordinary human. Something greater than human. Something inhuman.

  At times like these she knew why they had been so revered in their time.

  :How are you two faring?

  :As well as always, Tamun replied. Surim is getting all moon-eyed over a swamp girl again and I am endeavoring to put up with it.

  :Tamun expects me to gather food and materials for her weaving, but she won’t let me have some fun in the process, Surim complained. It’s not fair and—

  :How is Auraya doing? Tamun asked.

  Emerahl felt a wave of amusement at Tamun’s sudden change of subject.

  :She’s only let the shield around her mind slip once or twice since discovering how to raise it.

  :Mirar did say she was a fast learner, Tamun said. Maybe it is because of her youth. She hasn’t had time to become set in her ways of thinking.

  :Maybe, Surim agreed.

  :Something happened tonight, Emerahl told them. She saw something while mind-skimming that bothered her.

  :She didn’t tell you what it was?

  :No. I don’t think I should stay here much longer.

  :But you have not taught her immortality.

  :I will offer to, but I’m sure she’ll refuse—and if she is as smart as Mirar says, she will work it out for herself.

  :You’re right, Tamun said, but that was what Mirar sent you there for. He may be disappointed.

  :He will have to live with that. I won’t force her to learn it if she doesn’t want to.

  :If she does, will you teach her to change her age?

  :Mirar says it is my innate Gift, and no other can learn it.

  :Mirar may be wrong about innate Gifts. His is supposed to be magical healing, but he has taught it to others.

  :But no other can use it as well as he. I wouldn’t have been able to survive being crushed, as he did.

  :You don’t know that. But if an innate Gift is one that an immortal can do better than others perhaps Auraya will be able to change her age but not as well as you can. Perhaps you can learn to fly, but not as well as she.

  :Flying is not a Gift you’d want to have less ability for. Failing could be painful or fatal. I’ll hardly be able to take up the Quest for the Scroll again if I’m stuck in Si, healing from multiple bone fractures.

  :True. What do you think Auraya will do once you leave?

  :Return to the Open. Carry on as if nothing has happened.

  :If she can do so will be up to the gods to decide, Surim said, suddenly serious. They will not be able to kill her easily, but they may use her trust in them to trap her.

  :When they fail, Tamun continued, she will have only us to turn to for help.

  :She will be a powerful ally, Surim finished.

  :For all your claims the future can’t be predicted, you two certainly like sounding as if you can do just that, Emerahl observed.

  :I don’t, Tamun said. But when Surim gets all dramatic I feel I must support him.

  :You love it as much as I do, Surim told his sister. Go on. Admit it.

  :I get no pleasure from unwarranted exaggeration or theatrics, Tamun declared. But it would be—

  :Are you certain the gods will turn on Auraya? Emerahl interrupted. No doubt in your minds?

  :There are always doubts, Surim admitted. The future can’t be predicted, only guessed. The gods have a habit of killing immortals, but there is always a chance they’ll stay their hand for one of their followers.

  :Especially when that follower is one of Chaia’s lovers, Emerahl pointed out.

  :Ex-lover, Tamun corrected.

  :I think it’s time Mirar knew about that, Emerahl told them. I think it’s time he learned how Auraya regards him.

  The Twins were silent a moment.

  :Yes. Tell him. He is among good people. They will support him, Tamun said.

  :And one there is quite willing to provide comfort if he asks for it, Surim added.

  Comfort? Emerahl thought, amused. The Twins regularly skimmed the minds of anyone near Emerahl and Mirar, keeping a watch for anyone intending harm. It hadn’t occurred to Emerahl what else they might notice. So Mirar has an admirer in the Dreamweaver House. How well timed, she mused.

  :I will tell him tonight, she said.

  :Gently, Tamun advised.

  :Of course. What do you think I am?

  :Someone who has known him a long time. You have known him when he was made of tougher stuff. He is not the same person now. Remember that.

  :I will, Emerahl assured her.

  :Good. Good night. Travel well.

  As The Twins’ minds faded from Emerahl’s perception, she turned her thoughts to that of an old friend.

  :Mirar, she called.

  There was no reply. She roused herself enough to open an eye. The sky was dark, but still glowed where the sun had set. It was still too early.

  Go to sleep, Mirar, she thought. Don’t you know how annoyingly suspenseful it is when you’re waiting to deliver bad news?

  The dining hall of the Dreamweaver House had been full this night. Mirar had allowed himself to be recruited as a helper in the kitchen. He had listened to the constant chatter of the Dreamweavers there and during the meal, enjoying the relaxed, unworried mood of the house—and concentrating on trying to pick up more of the local language.

  Being able to pick up emotions made it easier to understand these people, but it was a barrier as well as a boon when it came to learning the languages they spoke. It was easy, sometimes, to guess what they were saying from what he sensed rather than from the actual words they spoke. He must make himself note the words and work out what they meant.

  It also helped that a fellow Northern Ithanian Dreamweaver with some knowledge of the southern languages had arrived the night before. Dreamweaver Moore was in Dekkar to collect or buy cures.

  “Genrians have a crazy idea that the more exotic and distant the origin of a cure, the better it must be,” he had told Mirar. “They’ll pay us a lot of money for them, which we then put to good use providing perfectly adequate local cures for less affluent patients. There are many cures unique to Dekkar’s jungle, though the last time I came here there was more of it. These people seem set on cutting the whole jungle down.”

  There was a mood of anticipation among the Dreamweavers. Mirar had guessed that a ritual or celebration was going to take place. After the meal he helped clear the table and clean up. When all was in order, the Dreamweavers followed Tintel down a corridor and out onto a balcony. Tintel had shown Mirar this place the morning after he had arrived. It was like a wooden courtyard, but was raised above the ground. Potted plants and low walls were arranged in a large circle in the center, and the curved triangular spaces left by this formed small gardens with limited privacy.

  The scent of flowers filled the humid air and the whir and creak of insect calls was so constant and powerful he could almost feel the heavy air vibrating. Mirar hadn’t grown used to the heat: it made him sleepy during the day and unable to sleep during the night. The local Dreamweavers were affected by it, too, but not as much as he.

  They formed a circle. Recognizing the beginning of a link ceremony, Mirar felt a twinge of anxiety. He considered again the possibility that his mind shield might allow him to join a link without revealing his own thoughts. He wouldn’t know until he tried, but if he failed his identity might be revealed.

  The Dreamweavers linked hands and bowed their heads. Mirar felt a pang of frustration and longing. Except for the link he had joined in Somrey, it had been a long time since he had experienced the sense of belonging a link could bring.

  It is a cruel irony that I, the man who invented this ritual, who founded these people’s way of life, should now hesitate to join them, he thought. But there is much I can learn from them, and about the people of Southern Ithania. It is worth the r
isk.

  He felt the grip of the man holding his right hand tighten, then the hand on his left twitched. Carefully, keeping the shield about his own mind strong, he sought the minds of those around him. Soon he could hear voices and see snatches of memories.

  He saw the memory of a Dreamweaver who had examined a sick baby. The infant had underdeveloped and deformed organs, and could not be cured by any ordinary Dreamweaver. The father was a Pentadrian Servant, Mirar saw with a shock. The Dreamweaver had given the man the bad news. The Pentadrian had accepted it, saying that if a Dreamweaver could not cure the child, nobody could…

  …taxes were raised this year, probably to pay for the construction of the bridge. A Servant of the Gods had examined the House’s records and was satisfied, and only asked for a small bribe. He was still grateful for the advice given to him and his wife about their marital troubles. Doesn’t realize how common that…

  …water lapped at the edges of the platform the Dreamweaver House was built upon. The flood had threatened to spill into the building last year. What would it be like this year…

  …where there had been enormous trees there were now charred trunks surrounded by crops. Memories of the former forest and of the new fields overlaid each other. Shocking, but the locals need to eat. Trouble is, he hadn’t been able to find that little plant with the pink flowers again. Hope that wasn’t the only place it…

  …she is so beautiful. Glimpse of naked body hastily pushed aside…

  …then where would he go? North up the gulf? Not likely. Back to the west? Doubt it. What if he went south? What if he’s here somewhere? He could be in this very courtyard now….

  …thinking about these stories that Mirar has returned. Not even sure I believe them. If Mirar’s back, why haven’t any of us seen him? No….