Voice of the Gods

by Trudi Canavan

  “Huan?” Jade’s eyes widened. “Here? Watching us?”

  “Not any more,” Auraya assured her quickly. “They—Saru was with her—left to tell the others that my mind is shielded.”

  Jade stared at her. “In all my years,” she murmured, “I’ve never encountered anyone who could sense the gods. Do the gods know you can?”

  “Yes, but not like this. Before I could only do so when they were close.”

  “And when did this change?”

  “After you taught me to skim minds.”

  Jade nodded. “Don’t let them know. Former White or not, they will kill you if they learn that you can spy on them. Don’t even tell Chaia.”

  Auraya opened her mouth to protest that Chaia meant her no harm, then closed it again as Tyve landed. Jade gave her a meaningful look, then turned to greet the Siyee.

  12

  It took several seconds for Kalen to realize he was awake, then several more to remember where he was and why.

  The Pentadrians’ house. Warm. Not hungry. Going to make me a Servant.

  Waking up no longer brought a nagging dread over what the day might serve up to him. Not since he’d attempted to pick a man’s pockets and somehow found himself having a discussion with his intended victim about religion over a few drinks. The man had made him an offer too good to refuse: food and shelter in exchange for learning about his people.

  A full stomach and safe, warm sleeping arrangements had been worth a few boring lectures, but Kalen found he got a buzz of excitement from being part of these secret followers of the forbidden cult of the Pentadrians. He’d been surprised to find himself learning beside, and being accepted as an equal by, people from all kinds of backgrounds. Like the young man sleeping on the next pallet, Ranaan, who used to be a Dreamweaver.

  Who was breathing quickly as if he’d just had a fright.

  “Nightmare?” Kalen asked.

  A faint grunt of affirmation came in reply.

  Talking helped after a nightmare, Kalen knew. It’s close to morning, I reckon. I’ll never get to sleep again, so I may as well talk.

  “Ranaan?”

  He heard the sound of the young man rolling over to face him.

  “Yes?”

  “Were you really a Dreamweaver?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why’d you join the Pentadrians?”

  Ranaan sighed. “After my teacher was killed, Amli helped me get away. Amli saved my life and gave me a place to stay until it was safe to go back.” He paused. “But it’ll never be safe to go back. Fareeh’s murderers know I can identify them. They’ll kill me.”

  “Is that why you became a Pentadrian?”

  “It’s too dangerous being a Dreamweaver.”

  “And being a Pentadrian isn’t dangerous?”

  “Not as dangerous. Not for me, anyway. I…I like what Amli teaches. Their gods don’t make them kill Dreamweavers.”

  “That doesn’t matter to you now. You’re not a Dreamweaver any more.”

  “Just because I’m not a Dreamweaver doesn’t mean I don’t care what happens to them. Amli says that is the Pentadrian way. Dreamweavers don’t deserve what the Circlians do to them.” He paused. “Why did you come here?”

  Kalen chuckled. “They feed me. I’ve got a warm place to sleep. I’m thinking all these boring lessons are worth sitting through if we end up joining in an orgy now and then.”

  Ranaan burst out laughing. “Sorry to kill your hopes, Kalen, but they don’t have orgies.”

  “They do so. Everybody knows they do.”

  “It’s just a rumor the Circlians invented. Pentadrians have special rites for married couples that help them conceive children, but not orgies.”

  “Amli might be telling you that in case you get offended.”

  “Dreamweavers have known this for years, Kalen. There are Dreamweavers in Southern Ithania too, remember.”

  “Oh.” Kalen cursed under his breath. “That’s the second bit of bad news I’ve had today.”

  “Sorry.” Ranaan chuckled. “What was the first?”

  “That they can’t make Giftless people Gifted.”

  “Nobody can make their Gifts stronger,” Ranaan agreed.

  “The Circlians would never make me a priest, but these Pentadrians don’t mind if I don’t have Gifts.”

  “Do you think their gods are real?”

  “Amli’s stories make them sound like they are.”

  “Yes. They do. What’s that noise?”

  They both lay silent, listening. The faint sound of hurried footsteps reached them, coming from above, below and beyond the wall that separated them from the alley outside. There was a cry of alarm, cut short. Kalen felt his heart start racing. He stood up and tiptoed to the window. Something was happening. Something bad.

  “What are you doing?” Ranaan asked fuzzily.

  He’s actually falling asleep again! Kalen shook his head. He might be Gifted, but he has no instinct for survival. Looking out of the window, Kalen noted movement in the shadows. The noises grew louder.

  “What’s going on?” Ranaan sat up, fully awake now.

  “I don’t know, but I don’t intend to wait around to find out,” Kalen told him. “There are people in the alley outside. From the sound of it, they’re upstairs, too. There must be another way out. Amli probably has a secret exit somewhere.” He started for the door.

  A shout rang out, muffled by the floorboards.

  “That’s Amli,” Ranaan said.

  A bright pinpoint of light appeared, illuminating the room. Below it hovered Ranaan’s palm.

  “Put that out!” Kalen hissed. “They’ll—”

  Footsteps pounded outside their door. Kalen cursed and dived for the window. He felt hands clamp about his leg and pull him back.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” Ranaan said, standing up. “You could kill yourself falling from there. Or at least break a limb.”

  “Worth the risk,” Kalen said. He looked past Ranaan’s shoulder. The door was open and two Circlian priests were striding toward them. One grasped Ranaan’s shoulder. The other took Kalen’s arm. Kalen sagged with resignation.

  What’s the point of having an instinct for survival when it kicks in too late? he thought.

  The priests escorted them out of the room and down the stairs. In the main room several of the Pentadrian converts stood in a huddle, surrounded by priests and priestesses. Amli and his wife faced another priestess, who was glaring at the couple.

  “You disguised your men as priests and had them hire others to track Dreamweavers,” the priestess said. She spoke so confidently her words were more a statement than an accusation. “Then you had your men murder those Dreamweavers. You tried to make Circlians look bad in order to make Pentadrians appear better, when the truth was the opposite.” She shook her head. “I was told Pentadrians respected Dreamweavers. Was I told a lie?”

  Ranaan made a small, strangled noise. Amli said nothing, just looked at the ground. The priestess stared at him, then shook her head. “If you found it so distasteful, why did you do it?” She paused. “Ah. Such loyalty is admirable, but it comes at a cost.”

  “I am prepared to face the consequences,” Amli replied.

  “I see that. Did you ever question whether a man with such low and dishonorable methods deserved your loyalty?”

  “Ultimately it is the gods I serve,” Amli said, in a voice so quiet Kalen could only just hear him.

  The priestess crossed her arms. “If your gods are real and as worthy of your loyalty as you think, would they allow such a man to rule your people? I think—ah! There he is, watching through your eyes from the safety of his home.” Her eyes flashed and she leaned closer. “You are a liar and a coward, First Voice Nekaun. Wherever your people are in the north, we will find them. And we will make sure everyone in the world knows of what you arranged here in Jarime. How will your people react when they know how low you’ve stooped?”

  She blinked, then smiled and stepped
back. Turning to another priest, she gestured at the Pentadrians. “Take them all to the Temple.”

  As the priests began to herd everyone out, the priestess’s eyes moved around the room. Her eyes reached Ranaan and widened. Kalen’s heart sank as she walked over to his new friend.

  “Ranaan,” she said quietly. “Why didn’t you come back to the hospice?”

  Ranaan kept his eyes lowered. “I was afraid to, Priestess Ellareen—I mean Ellareen of the White.”

  Her expression softened. “That’s understandable. You couldn’t have known you were saved by the people who had arranged your teacher’s murder.”

  Ellareen of the White? As it dawned on Kalen that he was in the presence of one of the Gods’ Chosen he felt a rush of fear. The White are the Pentadrians’ enemies. She’s supposed to be my enemy, too.

  The woman’s gaze shifted to Kalen and his stomach sank to the floor. I only joined them for some food and a bed, he thought at her. And for the thrill of it, he admitted. I’m so stupid. What was I thinking? They don’t even have orgies.

  Ellareen’s lips twitched.

  “Is it true?” Ranaan asked in a thin voice. “Did they kill Fareeh?”

  The White turned back to him, her expression grave and sympathetic. “Yes. If you don’t believe me, I can introduce you to someone you will.”

  “But…why would they do that?”

  “To make Circlians look bad. To make becoming a Pentadrian more appealing.” She glanced around the room. Most of the Pentadrian converts had been taken out and the remaining priests were regarding her expectantly. “I will know more when I’ve had the chance to question everybody. I’m afraid you and your friend will have to come as well, but I’ll see you’re well treated.”

  “Will…will we be locked up for this?” Ranaan asked.

  She smiled. “Probably only for one night. Tomorrow we will know who has committed a crime and who hasn’t. You’ll be released then—and it will be safe for you to rejoin your people.”

  Ranaan looked relieved. As the White stepped back and the priests began to usher them out, Kalen patted Ranaan on the shoulder.

  “Don’t worry, my friend. Even if the food isn’t as good, at least we’ll get a bed for the night.”

  The flat bread Jade usually made each morning, of a local root pulped and flavored with spices, was surprisingly tasty. She had taught Auraya how to make it, and this morning Auraya had prepared the meal while Jade readied herself to leave. The bread baking on the heated cooking stone was nearly ready, so she busied herself making hot drinks.

  Jade packed slowly and carefully, taking out and replacing several jars and bags along the back wall before deciding which to take. She had made many small pouches and tough clay jars that she fired to hardness with magic. These she filled with powders, dried leaves, fungi, roots, hardened resins, sticky gums and thick oils. Auraya realized she knew the uses most of these substances could be put to. During the preparation of her cures, Jade had explained what each was for, freely giving a little of what Auraya suspected was a great wealth of healing knowledge.

  The bread was beginning to smoke as its crust toasted. Auraya removed it and poured hot water into two cups.

  “Breakfast is ready,” she announced.

  Jade straightened, then breathed deeply. “Ah, the smell of maita is so good in the morning.” She walked over to the beds and took the cup Auraya offered. Taking a sip, she sighed appreciatively.

  “Will you come back here?” Auraya asked, breaking the bread in half and giving a portion to Jade.

  “Eventually.” Jade looked at all the pots and bags. “Can’t let all that go to waste. You’re welcome to use it, too. No point in letting it go stale.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jade took a bite, chewed, swallowed and then sipped from her cup. “You still plan to go back to the Open?”

  Auraya nodded. “My place is with the Siyee.”

  “Well then, remember this: if you find the gods don’t agree, you have a place among us immortals, if you need it.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “You do that.” Jade chuckled. “You do realize we’ll be watching closely to see what the gods will do. They’ve claimed all immortals are evil for a century. If they accept you, they prove themselves wrong.”

  Auraya smiled. “Assuming I’m not evil.”

  Jade laughed. “Yes.” She turned away and moved back to her pack. Putting her cup down, she held the bread between her teeth and stowed a few more items with quick, decisive movements. Then she picked up the pack and returned to the beds.

  “Good luck, Auraya the immortal,” she said.

  Auraya rose. “Thank you, Jade. You took a risk coming here. I do appreciate it.”

  The woman shrugged. “I did it for Mirar, remember. He’s the one you should thank.”

  “Maybe I will, next time he interrupts my dreams.”

  Jade’s eyebrows rose. “Dreams, eh? Like that, is it?”

  Auraya laughed. “Not for a long time. Go on, then. The sooner you leave, the sooner I can return to the Siyee.”

  The woman turned away and strode toward the cave entrance. She paused and looked back once, then disappeared into the shadows. Auraya regarded the entrance for a long time after the woman had gone.

  She’s a strange one, she thought. Cranky, cynical, but also strong and determined. I imagine that’s what living so long does to a person. Will I get like that? I suppose there’s worse I could be. Underneath all the moodiness, there’s an optimism in Jade that reassures me. She can still laugh at things. Maybe that’s because she’s been through so much that she knows it’s only a matter of time before bad situations sort themselves out.

  She had agreed to give Jade three days’ head start before leaving the cave herself. Auraya had no idea how far a land-bound person could travel in three days. Hopefully far enough to evade any Siyee scouts the gods might send after her.

  She’s lived this long, Auraya told herself. I’m sure she can take care of herself.

  Picking up her half of the bread, she began to eat.

  Tintel was silent as she led Mirar from platform to platform. He sensed that her mind was occupied with planning and worrying, and he felt a pang of sympathy. A city Dreamweaver House was always a busy place, and the more Dreamweavers there were to organize, the more organizing there was to do. He couldn’t help her with that, only with the sorts of healing emergencies they had dealt with tonight.

  If she hadn’t worked out that he was powerfully Gifted before, she knew it now. They had visited a woman bleeding profusely after bearing a child, and the only way Mirar had been able to save her was to heal her magically. Tintel had clearly been impressed, but hadn’t said anything.

  She had also tried a method he had never encountered before in an attempt to stem the bleeding. He had noted a few other improvements in the local Dreamweavers’ knowledge since coming here, as well. Advances and discoveries ought to filter through to Dreamweavers everywhere through mind links, but clearly the restrictions and intolerance in the north had prevented or slowed the transferral of knowledge there.

  They crossed the bridge to the Dreamweaver House. He opened the door for Tintel, and she smiled in gratitude.

  “I wish the men of Dekkar had the manners of those of the north,” she said wryly. “Thank you for your help, Wilar.”

  He shrugged and followed her inside. The smell of food filled the hall and his stomach grumbled.

  “I’ll get someone to bring you some food,” he said, guessing that Tintel would go straight to her room to work.

  “Thank you.” She nodded. “Don’t forget yourself.”

  He smiled. “I won’t.”

  A few servants and Dreamweavers remained in the kitchen. One Dreamweaver woman was preparing a meal for her infant daughter, while another was complaining about her husband’s snoring. There was soup and the local doughy bread left over from dinner. He asked the complaining wife to take Tintel a serve of both, t
hen took a portion out to the hall.

  Several of the younger Dreamweavers were sitting around the table. They all looked up as he arrived, then quickly down at their meals. An awkward silence followed and Mirar sensed a mix of suppressed amusement and speculation from them.

  He set his plate on the table, sat down and began to eat.

  The silence continued, now imbued with embarrassment. When one of the Dreamweavers cleared his throat to speak, relief spread among the rest.

  “Forgive our silence, Wilar,” the Dreamweaver said. “Your arrival made us see we were gossiping.”

  Mirar smiled. “People gossip. It is in their…” He searched for the right word for “nature” and one of the Dreamweavers supplied it. “What did I miss?”

  They smiled and exchanged glances. His question had eased some of their embarrassment, but not the tension in the room.

  “The newest talk is that you are Mirar,” the youngest Dreamweaver said in Avvenan.

  The others frowned at the young man disapprovingly. He spread his hands. “He should know. What if someone takes it seriously? It could be awkward.”

  Mirar laughed and shook his head. “Mirar? Me? Why? Is it because I am foreign?”

  They nodded.

  “Mirar came south,” another added. “He must be here somewhere.”

  “We don’t know that for sure,” the older Dreamweaver pointed out.”

  “We don’t know anything for sure.”

  They began to talk over each other, making it difficult for Mirar to understand them. Suddenly one of the Dreamweavers who had remained silent turned to him.

  “So you’re not Mirar?”

  Mirar paused. If he denied a direct question, then in the future, if he needed to reveal his identity, he would also reveal that he had lied to them. It was never good to lie. People resented it, even when they knew it was justified.

  So instead he smiled coyly. “I am for someone here, and I don’t want to, er, spoil the illusion for her.”

  There were laughs all around. One of the men rolled his eyes.

  “Dardel, I bet.”

  “But she was the one that suggested it to me,” said another.