Back in her room, she sat down on the edge of the bed and sighed.
So I wasn’t being overly suspicious after all. They are treating me differently. And it’s because I’m unskilled.
Which wasn’t a surprise, really. Being Skilled was what set them apart. Just as being clever gave the Thinkers their standing in society. It was ironic to discover that the Servants were as insecure about their superiority over others as the Thinkers were.
It’s their weakness, she thought. Not a weakness I can easily take advantage of, however. I’m not here to best the Servants at some challenge. I’m here to join them.
The footsteps of someone in the passage outside her door suddenly stopped, and she saw something slide under her door. Rising, she stooped to pick it up.
It was a small scroll, slightly squashed where it had been forced under the door. She chuckled as she saw it was addressed to “Servant Reivan Reedcutter.” I’m not a Servant yet, she thought, amused.
Turning the scroll over, she felt her amusement evaporate as she saw the seal of the Thinkers. Breaking it, she spread open the scroll and began to read.
Servant Reivan Reedcutter
It has been reported to us that you have entered the Sanctuary with the intent to become a Servant. Since this requires the full dedication of your time, assets and life to the gods, clearly you cannot fulfil the requirements of a Thinker. A man cannot be ruled by two masters. Your membership has been revoked.
Prime Thinker Hitte Sandrider
Reivan realized her heart was racing. She muttered a curse. If she didn’t pass the tests and become a Servant she would leave the Sanctuary with no home, few assets and no legal means to earning an income from anything but menial tasks. She was risking her future - her life, even - on tests that she could not possibly pass.
No, she thought, taking a deep, calming breath. Imenja has kept her word. She has ordered Drevva to ignore my lack of magical ability. I just have to hope I passed the other tests.
A knock came from her door. She slipped the letter under her mattress then turned to open the door. Dedicated Servant Drevva stood in the passage, holding out a bundle of black cloth.
“Put this on and come to my room,” she ordered.
Reivan closed the door and let the bundle unfold. It was a Servant’s robe. Her heart jolted into rapid beating again and her hands shook as she quickly changed into it. Smoothing the cloth, she wondered how she looked in it. Did it suit her? Did it give her the look of authority she had admired in other Servants?
There was no star pendant of Servitude to go with it. That would be given to her when she finished her noviciate.
I still have so much to learn, she thought. They’re not going to make it easy for me, but perhaps that is for the best. Becoming a Servant shouldn’t be easy. I need to prove I’m worthy of this.
She straightened. And I will prove it. Even if just to justify Imenja’s decision.
Holding on to that feeling of determination, she left her room. Other entrants were dressed in the black, excitedly running up and down the passage and knocking on each others’ doors. One saw her and grinned. She smiled back.
This chaos quickly resolved into a line of black-robed entrants heading to Drevva’s room. The Dedicated Servant was waiting outside her door. She looked at each of them closely, then nodded.
“It is time,” she said. Turning, she led them down the passage to the main corridor, then began to ascend.
Reivan could not help thinking of Drevva’s words in the baths as she followed the group. She felt vaguely betrayed. Until then Reivan had thought the woman the least unfriendly of the Servants she’d met. Drevva had hidden her true feelings well.
Their journey took them steadily uphill. The Lower Sanctuary was a maze of buildings but the corridor cut a straight line through them. Finally they reached the white rendered walls of the Middle Sanctuary. Drevva left them standing in a line before a narrow door through which she disappeared.
One by one the soon-to-be Servant-novices entered the room. When Reivan drew close enough to see through the door she caught glimpses of a large room with black walls. Black tiles covered the floor. Her heart began to race.
This is the Star Room!
She was about to enter the place where the most arcane of ceremonies were held. The place where the Voices communed with the gods. Inside she could see dark-skinned Dekkans from the jungles of the south; pale-skinned, tall men and women of the desert races of Avven; broad-faced, sandy-haired people of Mur, and some that must have mixed bloodlines. All wore black robes. All would witness her become a Servant-novice. Reivan realized she was chewing her fingernails - an old habit from her childhood - and forced her hands back to her sides.
The youth in front of her stepped into the room. With her view now unblocked, Reivan could see the room properly. It had five walls. A channel of silver set into the floor formed the lines of a star, its points meeting the corners of the room. At its center stood a familiar figure. She felt her heart lift.
Imenja.
The Voice held out a hand to the young man, palm outward, fingers spread, and spoke the ritual words. He nervously placed his hand against hers. Reivan heard him murmur something, then Imenja’s reply. Then the Voice made the sign of the star over her chest and the young man followed suit. He bowed his head and hurried away to join the small group of new Servant-novices standing nearby.
Imenja looked up at Reivan, smiled and beckoned.
Taking a deep breath, Reivan walked into the room with what she hoped was dignified grace. She stopped before the Voice. Imenja’s smile widened.
“Reivan of the Thinkers,” she said. “To you we owe much, but that is not why you are here today. You stand before me now because you wish to serve the gods before all else, and because you have proven yourself worthy of the task.” She held out her hand. “Do you swear to serve and obey the gods above all else?”
Reivan pressed her palm lightly against Imenja’s.
“I swear.”
“Then from this moment you will be known as Servant-novice Reivan. You are welcome among us.”
Their hands parted. Reivan was aware of every sound, every shuffle of feet and smothered cough from the watching Servants. Imenja made the sign of the star. Reivan’s hand moved through the symbolic gesture as if it had a mind of its own. She bowed her head and stepped away. Her legs felt weak and shaky as she moved to stand with the other young Servant-novices.
“Today eight young men and women have chosen to dedicate their lives to the gods,” Imenja said, her voice calm. “Welcome them. Teach them. Help them realize their potential. They are our future.”
As she moved out of the center of the star, sounds began to fill the room. Servants stepped away from the wall, their sandals scraping and slapping on the floor. Some approached the new Servant-novices, who appeared to know them. The rest gathered into knots of discussion and voices echoed within the walls. To Reivan’s dismay, Imenja strode to the door and disappeared.
She did not know what to do next, and when nobody stepped forward to instruct her she stood still, watching the people around her. None looked at her. She was surprised to feel a pang of loneliness.
Seeing several Servants leave the room, she decided she could probably slip away, too. She began to wander in the direction of the exit, hoping it would not be considered rude of her to leave.
“Servant-novice Reivan.”
The voice was male and unfamiliar. Reivan turned to find a rather handsome Dedicated Servant approaching. He was Nekaun, one of the few whose name she had taken note of during the war. It is always easier to remember the names of good-looking people, she mused.
He smiled patiently as she respectfully made the sign of the star. “Welcome to the Sanctuary, Reivan,” he said. “I am Nekaun.”
She inclined her head. “Thank you, Dedicated Servant Nekaun.”
“You will make a good Servant.”
There was no hint of derision in his voice. S
he managed a smile, though she feared it looked more like a grimace.
“I hope so.”
A frown creased his forehead. “I’m guessing you feel you don’t fit in. Am I right?”
She gave a shrug. “I suppose so.”
“Don’t try too hard to do so,” he told her. “Imenja didn’t choose you because you’re like everyone else.”
She opened her mouth to reply, but couldn’t decide on the right words to say. Nekaun smiled. Her heart skipped a beat.
By the gods, he is even more good-looking close up, she thought. Suddenly she didn’t know what to say, but it didn’t matter, as he was now looking around the room.
“So much chatter. Do you know what they’re talking about?”
She shook her head automatically, then smiled as she realized she did know. “Who the next First Voice will be?”
He nodded. “They haven’t stopped gossiping since we got back. It’s only been a week and already I fear for my sanity.” He shook his head, but there was a gleam in his eyes that belied his pained expression.
“I expect you’ll all be trying hard to impress the rest of us in the next few weeks,” she said boldly. Then she felt her face flush. Am I flirting?
“Am I that transparent?” He chuckled. “Of course I am, but do not think the reason I approached you was solely to gain your favor. I do wish you well, and I will be watching your progress with interest.”
She felt herself relax a little at his frankness, though she was not sure why. “That’s just as well. Since I am only a Servant-novice, I will not be voting, and you could hardly be seeking to raise your popularity in the Sanctuary by welcoming me so openly.”
At once she regretted her words. Silly girl. If you keep telling him you’re unpopular he’ll decide you’re right and never talk to you again.
He laughed. “I think you underestimate your position here. Or you are overestimating the power of jealousy to sway a vote. Imenja favors you. When the Servants have finished sulking about that, they will remember who brought you here. When that happens, you will have a whole new range of problems to overcome.”
She could not hold back a bitter laugh. “Thanks for the reassuring words.”
His shoulders lifted. “Just a friendly warning. Now is not the time to be complacent, Reivan. If Imenja intends to make you her confidant and counsellor - which I suspect she does - you will need to learn more about the Sanctuary than just law and theology. You will...” His gaze flickered over her shoulder. “It was pleasant talking to you, Reivan. I hope I have the chance to again.”
“As do I,” she murmured. He walked away. Looking over her shoulder, Reivan saw another Dedicated Servant staring at Nekaun.
Interesting. I wonder what that was about? Is it one of the things he thinks I need to learn about in addition to law and theology?
To her surprise, the suggestion that internal conflicts existed within the Sanctuary had sparked her curiosity. She looked at the faces around her with new interest. It would help if she knew their names.
It is time I found out.
Mirar woke with the distinct feeling that it was too early to be waking up. Then he heard gasping and alarm chased away the last dregs of sleep. He sat up, opened his eyes and created a spark of light.
Emerahl was propped up on one elbow, a hand to her chest as she forced her breathing to slow. She gave him a pained, accusing look.
“The dream?” he asked.
She nodded, then sat up and swung her legs over the edge of her bed.
“You?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. Are you sure I’m the one projecting them?”
“We woke up at the same time,” she pointed out.
“Probably because you woke me.”
She glared at him. “You’re not taking this seriously.”
He drummed his fingers against the frame of his bed. “I have no trouble controlling the dreams I’m aware I’m having. A forgotten dream is either extremely significant or completely insignificant.” He rested his elbows on his knees, then his chin on his fists. “If I was my own patient, I would dream link with him. I’d encourage him to reveal and confront the dream by nudging him into it, and if I had seen snatches of it previously, that would be even easier.”
“You want me to link with you?”
He looked at Emerahl. There had been the slightest hint of reluctance in her voice.
“Only if you are comfortable with it.”
“Of course I’m comfortable with it,” she said defensively. “You’ve rescued me often enough. It’s time I returned the favor.”
He smiled crookedly. “It is. Do you remember how to dream link?”
“Yes.” She pursed her lips. “I’m a little out of practice.”
“We’ll manage,” he assured her. He lay down again. “I’ll link with you in the dream state. Once the connection is made, show me a little of what you’ve been dreaming. Not all of it. Your memory of it should act as a trigger in mine to start the original dream. If it is mine.”
He closed his eyes. Emerahl’s bed creaked as she lay down. For a while she tossed and turned. At one point she muttered darkly about not being able to get to sleep now that he needed her to, then her breathing began to slow and deepen. He let himself sink into a dream trance.
The state of mind he sought hovered between unfettered dreaming and conscious control. In that state he was like a child playing with a toy boat in a stream. The boat was his mind and it went wherever the current took it, but he could only direct it with gentle nudges or by stirring the water, though he could simply pick the boat up if it ventured where he did not want it to go.
:Emerahl, he called. A long silence followed, then a groggy mind touched his.
:Mirar? Hmm, I am definitely out of practice. Shall I show you the dream? she asked.
:Take your time, he said. No need to hurry.
Instead of calming her, his words stirred a mixture of anxiety and agitation. Flashes of thought and images escaped her defense. He saw a scene that was unfamiliar in detail, but familiar in context. A sumptuous room. Beautiful women. Not so good-looking men in fine clothing appraising the women.
At the same time he sensed her desire to hide something from him, lest he be disappointed in her. He had seen enough to comprehend what that was, and felt a flash of anger. She’d done it again. She’d sold her body to men. Why did she do this to herself?
Then the familiar presence of another stirred in the back of his mind.
She is a whore? Leiard’s surprise at this news was tainted with disapproval.
She has been, from time to time, Mirar replied defensively. Always out of necessity.
And you... you have rescued her from that life before.
Yes.
Mirar realized he had drawn away from Emerahl’s mind. He had left the dream-trance state and was fully awake. From the other bed he heard a sigh, then the sound of the bed creaking.
“Mirar?” Emerahl murmured.
Drawing in a deep breath, he sat up and created a light. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her shoulders drooping. Looking up, she met his eyes then looked away.
“You did it again,” he said.
“I had to.” She sighed. “I was being hunted. By priests.”
“So you became a whore? Of all things, you had to choose such a demeaning...” He shook his head. “With your ability to change your age, why resort to that? Why not change into an old crone? Nobody would look twice at you? It’s got to be easier to hide as an old woman than a beautiful—”
“They were looking for a crone,” she told him. “An old woman healer. I couldn’t sell cures. I had to earn money somehow.”
“Then why not be a child? Nobody would suspect a child of being a sorceress, and people would feel compelled to help you.”
She spread her hands. “The change wastes me. You know that. If I’d gone back so far I’d have been too weak to fend for myself. The city was full of desperate children. I needed to
be someone the priests wouldn’t want to look at too closely. Someone whose mind they wouldn’t attempt to read.”
“Read?” Mirar frowned. “Priests can’t read minds. Only the White can.”
She looked up at him and shook her head. “You’re wrong. Some can. One of the children I befriended overheard a conversation between priests about the one hunting me. They said he could, and that he was looking for a woman whose mind was shielded. The child wasn’t lying.”
Mirar felt his anger waver. If the gods could give the skill to the White, why not to a priest hunting a sorceress? He sighed. That did not make what she had done any less infuriating.
“So you became young and beautiful. A fine way to avoid drawing attention to yourself.”
She looked up at him and he saw her pupils enlarge with anger. “Are you suggesting I did it out of vanity? Or do you think I’m greedy, that I could not get enough of fine dresses and gold?”
He met and held her eyes. “No,” he said. “I think you could have avoided that life if you’d truly wanted to. Did you even try anything else?”
She did not answer. Her expression told him she hadn’t.
“No,” he said. “It is as if you are drawn to it, though you know it is harmful. I worry about you, Emerahl. I worry that you nurse some unhealthy need to hurt yourself. As if... as if you are punishing yourself out of... out of self-loathing, perhaps.”
Her eyes narrowed. “How dare you. You tell me it’s harmful and disapprove of me resorting to it again, but you have never hesitated to buy a whore’s services. I heard you once boast that you were such a regular customer at a particular whorehouse in Aime that they let you have every third night free.”
Mirar straightened. “I am not like their regular customers,” he told her. “I am... considerate.”
“And that makes it different?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Other men are not so considerate. They can be brutal.”
The Last of the Wilds aotft-2 Page 9
