Voice of the Gods

by Trudi Canavan

  “It is hard to believe,” she said. “Yet I find I can’t dismiss it completely.” She pursed her lips. “Nor can I accept it completely.”

  He shrugged. “That is what I expected.”

  “I need proof.”

  “Of course.”

  “And something else.”

  “Oh?”

  “Your forgiveness for doubting, if you do prove to be Mirar.”

  He laughed. “I could hardly begrudge you that.”

  She did not smile. “If you’re not Mirar…”

  “You’ll give me a thorough spanking?” he suggested.

  “This is not a matter to joke about.”

  “No?” He sobered. “No, it isn’t. I have done all I can to ensure I do not endanger myself or my people by revealing my identity today, but it is still a risk.”

  “A risk worth taking?”

  “Obviously.” He leaned forward and held out his hand. “Link with me.”

  Her frown vanished. She stared at him for a moment, then took his hand. He watched her close her eyes, then shut his own and reached out with his mind.

  As her thoughts came clearly to his senses, he drew up memories for her. Old memories of the formation of the Dreamweavers. Memories of healing discoveries and memories of Dreamweavers long dead. Memories of civilizations that had dwindled to nothing long ago and of those that still existed.

  He did not show her the gods or their work, his own “death” or his life as Leiard. This should be a moment of joy, not one of relived terror or pain. Drawing away from her mind, he opened his eyes and released her hand. Her eyelids fluttered open. She stared at him, then lowered her eyes.

  “I…I don’t know what to say. Or what to do. How should I address you?”

  “Just call me Mirar,” he told her firmly, disturbed by her almost subservient behavior. “I am a Dreamweaver, not a god or a king or even a second cousin of the nephew of a prince. I have never led my people by force, only guided them with experience and wisdom—though I have to admit to having failed in the latter more than a few times. Look at me.”

  She obeyed. He hadn’t expected her to be so overwhelmed. Reaching forward, he took her hand again.

  “You are the leader here, Tintel. That is how I arranged things. One Dreamweaver is chosen to maintain each House and lead those who stay there. They are the authority in that place, and all travelling Dreamweavers should obey them or move on. I am a travelling Dreamweaver. That means you have to order me around, or I’ve got to leave.”

  The corner of her mouth twitched and he sensed her amusement.

  “That could be a little difficult,” she said. “And the others…they will be in awe of you. They will worship you.”

  “Then we’re both going to have to discourage them. My safety—our safety—relies on the Pentadrians thinking I am no threat to them. If I am worshipped like a god, they will consider me a threat.”

  She shook her head. “Pentadrians are not Circlians, Wi—Mirar. They do not resent other religions.”

  “Only because the gods of those religions do not exist. The one religion they do resent is the Circlians’, whose gods do exist.”

  She frowned and he sensed her growing anxious. He squeezed her hand.

  “I never wanted to be worshipped and I still don’t. It would be better if the Dreamweavers here regarded me more like a teacher than a god. I think, between us, we can manage that.”

  She looked at him and nodded. “I’ll try.”

  “I know you will.” He grinned. “This is like announcing an engagement, isn’t it? Who shall we tell first?”

  Tintel snorted softly. “If you don’t want to be worshipped, why are you revealing your identity?”

  “I want to be among my people again,” he told her seriously. “As myself.”

  She nodded, extracted her hands from his and rose. Facing the door, she took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “Then wait here. I’ll gather everyone in the hall and call you down when they’re ready.”

  He smiled. “Thank you, Tintel.”

  She walked to the door and opened it. Pausing to look back at him, she shook her head in wonder. Then, without saying a word, she left the room.

  Mirar smiled to himself. Once they got over their surprise and awe, it would be just like the old days again. He could travel around Southern Ithania like he had once travelled around the north, meeting Dreamweavers and sharing knowledge.

  And maybe this time he wouldn’t mess it all up.

  Blowing out her lamp, Reivan stretched out on her bed and considered the day that had just passed. The news that the High Chieftain of Dekkar had died suddenly of a fever had rushed through the Sanctuary and stirred up Servants, ambassadors and other dignitaries as if they were leaves in a dozen whirlwinds. It left the inhabitants of the Sanctuary subdued and expectant.

  One of the lesser Voices was to leave the next morning for the Dekkan city. He or she would lead the funeral rites and, once the official mourning time was over, arrange trials to select a new High Chieftain. The Trials were an old tradition. Any man or woman could enter them but, apart from a few occasions, they were always won by a man of “royal” bloodline. The entrants were tested on their strength and fitness, intelligence and knowledge, organizational and leadership skills, and dedication to the gods. Reivan assumed a mixture of privileged access to training and customising the tests to the candidates of “royal” blood explained the predictable outcome.

  A flood of important personages, and those who merely thought they were important personages, had come to the Sanctuary to ask if they, or their messages of sympathy, might travel south with the Voice. All this had kept Imenja and Reivan occupied late into the night. Too late, Reivan had told herself, for any nocturnal visits by a certain First Voice. And besides, he was probably even busier than Imenja.

  Maybe he’ll visit me tomorrow night, she thought.

  Maybe he’d satisfied his curiosity, and had no intention of returning. If it meant nothing to him, he won’t visit a second time. And a second visit didn’t mean he was going to see her a third or fourth time, and so on. It didn’t mean he loved her.

  Curse it! I’ve started thinking about him again. I’m never going to get to sleep at this rate.

  Rolling over, she discovered she had tossed and turned herself into a tight tangle with the bedding. As she began to unwind the sheet from around herself she heard a quiet tapping from the other room.

  From the main door to her apartment.

  Freeing herself suddenly became more difficult than before. When she had finally unwound the sheet, she donned her Servant robes hastily and hurried out of the bedroom.

  Finally reaching the door, she hesitated. There had been no second tapping. If it was Nekaun, surely he would have read from her mind that she was coming to answer the door. Surely he wouldn’t leave just because she hadn’t responded fast enough.

  If it wasn’t Nekaun, or any of the Voices, the visitor might have given up and left.

  Sighing, she grabbed the handle and pulled open the door.

  Nekaun smiled at her. She felt her heart flip over.

  “Good evening, Reivan,” he said, stepping into the room. “It has been an eventful day, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  He had stepped past her and moved into the center of the main room. Looking back at her, he beckoned.

  “I have a serious question for you,” he told her.

  A serious question! As he sat down she tried unsuccessfully to avoid thinking of what he might wish to ask. Was it about their relationship? Was it about Imenja? She moved to the chair opposite him. He rubbed his hands together, his gaze distant.

  “The gods visited me tonight,” he told her.

  She felt both disappointment and a thrill of amazement. This wasn’t about their relationship. Still, the gods had spoken to him and he had chosen to tell her.

  “They said that the Thinkers are searching for an ancient artif
act called the Scroll of the Gods. Have you heard of this?”

  Reivan frowned. “No. I know there is a group of Thinkers in Hannaya that study and search for objects of antiquity. It sounds like the sort of thing they’d look for.”

  Nekaun nodded. “The gods are concerned that if these Thinkers found this scroll—if it even still exists—they would remove it from its place of safekeeping or even damage it. They want me to ensure that doesn’t happen.”

  She grimaced. “Telling the Thinkers to stop searching for it will probably only encourage them to continue.”

  “Then I can see only one course of action. I will have to place a spy among them.” He looked at her. “Is there anyone here you would recommend?”

  Reivan looked away. “I don’t really know that many people here. Not well enough to suggest anyone, that is.”

  “Then what sort of person would you advise me to send?”

  She paused. Helping Nekaun spy on the people she had once belonged among felt a little like betrayal. Then another thought occurred to her and she frowned.

  “Why do the gods need you to send a spy? Couldn’t they watch the Thinkers themselves?”

  He laughed quietly. “The gods can’t be everywhere at once, Reivan, nor would they want to be. This is the sort of chore best given to a mortal.”

  “Ah.” There was no getting out of this. But what loyalty do I owe the Thinkers, anyway? she asked herself. They never accepted me. I never truly belonged. My loyalty is with the gods now. And Nekaun.

  “Your spy will have to be intelligent,” she told him. “And show little or no Skills, because most Thinkers don’t have any and are jealous of those that do. He needs to be opinionated, too.”

  “‘He?’ Why not a ‘she’?”

  “Most Thinkers are male. Female Thinkers are ignored.”

  “Being ignored would be good, for a spy.”

  “They are also excluded from important work.”

  “Ah.”

  “Why didn’t you ask your Companion, Turaan?”

  “I did.” He smiled. “The more advice the better. It gave me a good excuse to visit you.”

  Her heart jumped and began to race. She looked up and met his eyes.

  “You don’t need an excuse, Nekaun.”

  His smile widened. “Old or young?”

  She frowned, then realized he was talking about the spy again.

  “I’m not sure. A young Thinker might gain a place among the searchers by being willing to do boring work. An old Thinker would need to offer something valuable. Useful expertise, perhaps. Something that would persuade the others to allow him to join them.”

  “What nationality?”

  “Probably doesn’t matter. If he is to bring useful information, there should be a good reason they haven’t found it yet. They are jealous of their knowledge and suspicious of convenient coincidences. Some see plots everywhere.”

  “What if this spy was from the north? Would that make them even more suspicious?”

  “No. Most Thinkers don’t hold the sort of grudges ordinary people hold against other races. Knowledge is everywhere, regardless of landscape or race. Instead, they look down on those less intelligent. They’re fond of saying, ‘Wisdom and knowledge is everywhere, but so is stupidity.’”

  Nekaun chuckled. “Everyone needs someone to despise,” he quoted.

  …and someone to love, Reivan finished silently.

  He stood up. She slowly followed suit. Moving closer, he reached toward her. As his hand slid about her waist and he drew her against him she felt her pulse racing…and a whole lot of sensations his previous visit had introduced her to.

  “Does my plan to spy on the group you used to belong to bother you?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  He smiled, then kissed her, and all thoughts of the Thinkers slipped from her mind.

  15

  Returning from the priests’ bower, Auraya noticed Speaker Sirri sitting among some children, laughing. The Siyee woman looked up at her and beckoned.

  Walking over, Auraya dodged as several of the children suddenly dashed away, shrieking. Tiny missiles were streaking back and forth. At Sirri’s feet was a large basket full of berries. The Siyee leader’s mouth was stained dark red from the juice—and so were the faces of the children.

  Sirri looked down at Auraya’s clothes and put a hand over her mouth. Following her gaze, Auraya realized that her white circ and tunic were splattered with red spots. Sirri stood up abruptly and called out to the children.

  “That’s enough!” she said firmly. The children skittered to a halt and then gathered into a group, their eyes on the ground. “Don’t waste them,” Sirri urged, her voice gentle again. “Take a handful each and be on your way.”

  The children obeyed, breaking into a run as soon as they were twenty paces from Sirri. The Siyee leader looked at Auraya and sighed.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Auraya shrugged and sat down beside the woman. “I have a spare.”

  “Not any more. That’ll never come out.”

  Examining the spots, Auraya shrugged again. “If magic doesn’t work I’ll just have to order new clothes—and I’m sure the Priests here have a few spares in reserve. How did your meeting with the tribe leaders go?”

  Sirri grimaced. “Not well. Who’d have thought trade with landwalkers would make some of us turn greedy.”

  Auraya said nothing. The difficulties the Siyee had endured in the past had forced them to look after each other or perish. The lands returned to them by the Torens had been developed in ways the Siyee hadn’t had the numbers or knowledge to try, and now they found themselves arguing over sudden and unevenly distributed wealth. It was not landwalkers that had made some turn greedy.

  “I’ve been wondering if we should consult the gods on the matter,” Sirri continued. “Leave the decision in their hands.”

  “Better to sort it out yourselves,” Auraya replied.

  Sirri’s eyebrows rose. “Why is that?”

  Auraya frowned as she realized she could not provide an answer Sirri would accept. Have I come to distrust the gods so much I would warn others to have nothing to do with them? I’m starting to sound like a Wild.

  “The gods would expect you to do all you could before consulting them,” she replied. She looked at Sirri. “But I guess you’re telling me you have.”

  Sirri smiled. “Yes. But maybe you’re right. Maybe we should try harder. Have some berries. They’ve just come in season.”

  They both scooped up a handful and began eating. Auraya thought of Jade. She would have liked these berries. I suppose she is still making her way out of Si.

  She was surprised to find she missed the woman’s company. Though domineering and moody, Jade had been full of interesting anecdotes and knowledge. Auraya smiled. Jade might have been immensely old, but Auraya had managed to surprise her a few times.

  “I wonder if there’s a way to remove the void,” Auraya remembered saying one night. “Perhaps if magic was drawn from another place and released here it could be filled in.”

  Jade had stared at her in surprise. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Finishing her handful of berries, Sirri began talking about the tribes fighting over the mines. Though she had heard it all the previous night, Auraya let the woman talk through it again, knowing Sirri simply needed to air her frustration.

  :Auraya.

  She jumped at the voice in her mind, then looked down at her priest ring. Juran was calling her through it. Well, I no longer have to wonder if shielding my mind prevents it working.

  :Juran? she replied.

  :Yes. Where are you?

  :In the Open.

  :Is Speaker Sirri with you?

  :She is.

  :I have something to request of her. Will you speak for me?

  :Of course.

  “Speaker Sirri,” Auraya interrupted. “Juran of the White wishes me to communicate a request to you.”

  Sirri
froze, mouth open. Then, as she recovered from the surprise, she straightened, smiled and nodded. “Tell him I’m listening—and give him my greetings and good wishes.

  :Give her my thanks, Juran said. Recently we have discovered a Pentadrian plot in Jarime in which citizens of our city were murdered and others tricked into converting to the Pentadrian religion.

  Auraya relayed this to Sirri.

  :We have unearthed Pentadrian plots in Toren and Genria, and are investigating other reports of their operations. Their aim has been to quietly subvert the rule of these lands, while luring Circlians into abandoning the gods and worshipping theirs by offering positions of power to those without Gifts. Have Pentadrians or suspicious foreigners been seen in Si recently?

  “Not recently,” Sirri replied. “Not since last spring, when we requested Auraya’s help. We have kept a watch on our shores ever since. The only visitors have been Elai.”

  :I hope you are right. We have long debated what action would be appropriate in response to the Pentadrian attacks in our cities. If we ignore them, they may grow bolder. They may attempt to reenter your land. They will certainly try to subvert others again. We must let them know they can’t attack us without retaliation. Will you help us?

  “Of course,” Sirri replied. “What can we do?”

  :Huan herself suggested we attack them in their own land. Speed and surprise will be essential, so your Siyee warriors came to mind straightaway. The target was then obvious: the breeding stock of the black birds.

  Sirri’s eyes widened. “That would be a risky and…daring attack. I trust you know where the breeding stock are?”

  :In an isolated town, far from major Pentadrian cities. We will send maps and information about the town, the daily routine of the breeders and their birds—everything your warriors will need.

  Auraya realized her heart was racing. Juran was asking the Siyee to take a great risk. They would enter enemy lands. If they failed, nobody could help them.

  “I will go with them,” she said.

  Sirri frowned. “Juran will…oh! Of course. You were speaking for yourself, Auraya. Thank you.”

  :You may go with them if you wish, Juran said. But the gods forbid you to use your Gifts to help the Siyee or hinder the enemy. This must be a strike made by the Siyee, not by a White or even an ex-White.