The corridors in the Upper Sanctuary were wide and quiet. The walls were decorated with artworks, and mosaics covered the floors. Doors led to private courtyards, where fountains kept the air cool. She now had a suite of rooms decorated in the same austere but luxurious fashion the Voices enjoyed.
I suppose if you’re going to spend eternity serving the gods you may as well be comfortable while doing so, she mused. I may not be immortal, or need a suite of rooms all to myself, but I appreciate them as much for being an acknowledgment of all the work I do as for their comforts.
:Are you far away? a familiar voice spoke into Reivan’s mind.
It might have been Reivan’s imagination, but Imenja’s mental call seemed strained with anxiety. Reivan frowned.
:No. I’ve two corridors to go, she replied.
Now concern added to her discomfort. Small incidents and hints had led Reivan to suspect her mistress and Nekaun, the First Voice, had grown to dislike each other. She had noticed that Imenja frequently disagreed with Nekaun, and that the First Voice often overrode Imenja’s decisions. Both did so while using the politest of language.
There were subtler signs, too. Whenever in the same room, Imenja never faced Nekaun directly. She often crossed her arms or leaned slightly away from him. He smiled at her frequently, but his eyes always expressed some other emotion than good humor. Sometimes anger; sometimes a challenge.
I’m probably just reading them badly, Reivan told herself. But she could not help feeling disturbed. Any sign of conflict between the Voices, no matter how small, is enough to make anyone uneasy. Even if one could forget the immense magical powers they could wield, there is the long-term welfare of the people to consider. The Voices have to put up with each other for eternity. It is better they get along.
On a personal level it bothered her further. She liked Imenja. The Second Voice treated Reivan like a friend as well as a Companion. She also liked Nekaun, but in an entirely different way. He didn’t treat her like a friend, though he was friendly. Whenever he turned his natural, habitual charm on her she couldn’t help feeling a rush of hope and excitement.
Reivan had hoped a few months at sea would cure her of her attraction to Nekaun, but it hadn’t. Yet the journey had boosted her confidence and determination not to make a fool of herself. She could not do her job and avoid him, so she had decided she simply had to ignore the fluttering in her stomach and the distracting thoughts he stirred until she had been around him so much that he was ordinary and unexciting.
Reaching the beginning of the corridor that gave access to the long balcony on which the Voices liked to meet, Reivan paused to catch her breath. She smoothed her robes, wiped her face, cleared her mind and set forth again.
The sound of chatter drew her to the end. Several woven reed chairs had been arranged where the view over the city was best. All Voices and their Companions were sitting except for Nekaun. As always, he stood leaning against the railing, looking down at his fellow rulers and their advisers.
Reivan made the sign of the star over her chest and nodded respectfully to all the Voices. The Fifth Voice, Shar, was sipping flavored water. His pale skin and long pale hair was a stark contrast to Genza’s warm brown skin and cropped hair. Vervel, the stocky Third Voice, was heavier and older in appearance than his companions. As always, Genza had brought one of her trained birds, and a vorn lay by Shar’s feet. On Shar’s feet, Reivan noted. The beast panted in the heat of the day.
Avoiding Nekaun’s gaze, Reivan looked at Imenja, the Second Voice. Her mistress was slim and elegant, appearing to be in her late thirties. She smiled at Reivan and gestured to the empty chair beside her.
The conversation had stopped on Reivan’s arrival, but attention had not shifted to her. All were regarding Nekaun expectantly.
He smiled. “Now that we are all here, I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine, Heshema Guide. He has just returned from Northern Ithania, where he has been researching a little recent history for me.”
Glancing out of the corner of her eye, Reivan saw that Imenja was frowning. Her expression of disapproval vanished as footsteps echoed in the corridor. Reivan turned to see a middle-aged man enter the balcony.
She had expected someone with such a typical Sennon name to have the distinctive thin build and sun-browned skin of that race, but Heshema was an unimpressive-looking man. If she’d been asked to describe him, she would have been hard put to think of a feature that might single him out among others. He is quite bland, she mused. But if he’s been gathering information for Nekaun in Northern Ithania, that makes him a spy, and a spy hardly wants to stand out or be memorable.
“An honor to meet you all,” Heshema said in a deep, melodious voice.
As the Voices murmured replies, Reivan smiled. His voice is his distinctive feature, she thought. Though I expect he has learned to adopt a less memorable one when needed.
“I have asked Heshema to tell you what he has learned,” Nekaun said. “Some of you will already know part of it, but you should all learn something new.”
As the First Voice looked at Heshema expectantly, the man nodded.
“I arrived in Jarime in late winter,” the spy began. “The cold there encourages the common people to meet at drinking houses to share the warmth of a fire and exchange gossip. Most of the talk was of Auraya the White’s resignation. The official explanation is that she left in order to devote herself to helping the Siyee, who were suffering great losses to a plague.
“Many admired her for sacrificing immortality and great magical power for such a noble cause, but some questioned the truth of the explanation, speculating that perhaps their gods had banished Auraya from the White for some crime or mistake. The error they considered most likely was her sympathy to the Dreamweavers. She had arranged for Circlian healers and Dreamweavers to work together treating the needy in a building in the poor quarter they called a ‘hospice’. It was an unpopular move, especially among the wealthy citizens.
“Other ideas circulating included an affair with a Dreamweaver, and that she had neglected her duties as a White in favor of helping the Siyee. There were even a few who thought she might have turned Pentadrian.”
The Voices chuckled and Heshema’s lips thinned into a smile.
“There was also speculation that Auraya hadn’t left the White at all,” he continued, “and this was some ruse to lure us into battle. The rash of promotions among Circlians suggested otherwise to me. Only high priests and priestesses are eligible to become a White. Their gods apparently make the final choice, but the White ensure there are plenty of candidates.”
His voice was curiously devoid of skepticism, Reivan noted.
“Did you see anything to make you wonder if their gods are real?” Imenja asked.
Heshema glanced at Nekaun. “Nothing to make me certain of it.”
“That is not what I sent Heshema to discover,” Nekaun interrupted.
“No?” Imenja turned to smile at Nekaun. “Of course not, but he might have noticed something.” She looked at the spy. “Go on with your tale, Heshema.”
The man inclined his head. “I doubted the White would take kindly to me questioning them, so I sought other sources of information. I posed as a Genrian trader in order to meet Auraya’s former adviser, Danjin Spear. He believed the official explanation to be the true one. According to him, the Siyee had stolen Auraya’s heart the moment she first met them. I am sure he was keeping some secret about his former mistress, however. Something personal. He spoke as if something she had done had disappointed him.”
“An affair?” Genza asked.
Heshema shrugged. “That is possible.”
“You said there were rumors of an affair with a Dreamweaver,” Vervel pointed out.
“Yes. I didn’t give them much credence until I questioned the Siyee. I heard that there were a handful of the winged people in Jarime, some acting as ambassadors and others there in training to become priests and priestesses. They have a remarkably lo
w tolerance for intoxicating liquor, and the pair of initiates I spoke to were only too happy to tell me of the rumors in Si concerning Auraya’s last months there as a White.
“She returned to Si in response to your Servants landing there, but stayed due to the outbreak of a plague. When she arrived at the first village to succumb to the disease she found a Dreamweaver already there. She knew this Dreamweaver and those who observed the two of them together said it was clear there was a grudge between them, but they had settled their differences and were friendly by the time Auraya left the village.
“What happened afterward is a mystery that the Siyee would dearly like to solve. The Dreamweaver left Si without explanation and Auraya returned to Jarime and quit the White. They believe both events are connected, but don’t know how. When I suggested an affair, however, they were certain that couldn’t be the reason.”
“Sounds like an affair to me,” Genza said.
“Sounds like the sort of gossip that would naturally arise in that situation, so we shouldn’t assume it is true,” Imenja warned. “Did the Dreamweaver return to Si after Auraya quit the White?”
“The Siyee initiates did not know,” Heshema replied. “They were shocked by the hatred some Hanians felt toward the Dreamweavers. They might have decided to keep the return of the Dreamweaver a secret as a result.
“The Hanians’ dislike and fear of Dreamweavers appeared to be getting worse while I was there. Their paranoia had grown so strong that a rumor that the Dreamweaver leader, Mirar, isn’t dead and has returned to make mischief was circulating just before I left.”
Shar chuckled. “If only he had. We could recruit him.”
“Dreamweavers abhor violence,” Imenja reminded him. “But I expect a man of his Skills and experience could make a lot of trouble for the Circlians - if only he was alive.”
“These rumors are also circulating here,” Nekaun said. “A few of my friends have sought the source of them, and it appears the rumors have originated among the Dreamweavers themselves, all over Avven, Dekkar and Mur, at about the same time.”
“Interesting,” Vervel murmured.
“Yes.”
“So the White are only four, and one of their former enemies may have returned,” Genza said. “Can we take advantage of this?”
“No.” Nekaun’s answer was firm and his expression serious. “The rumors that Mirar is alive are just rumors, and our people in Jarime reported that a replacement for Auraya was chosen yesterday. Her name is Ellareen Spinner.”
The others absorbed this in silence for a moment, then Vervel made a low noise. He looked at Nekaun, then at the spy.
Nekaun nodded. “Thank you, Heshema. We must now discuss this in private.”
The spy made the sign of the star, then left the balcony.
“So,” Vervel said when the man’s footsteps had faded, “if Auraya is still an ally of the White, they now have the advantage.”
“Yes.”
“Will they invade us, do you think?”
“We can’t risk that they won’t,” Nekaun replied. “We must find a way to tip the balance in our favor again.”
“If only Mirar had returned,” Shar said wistfully.
“Even if he had, a sorcerer who will not kill is of no use to us,” Imenja said. “Not when Auraya is willing to, as she so effectively demonstrated in the battle.”
“We must find another way,” Nekaun said - for once in agreement with Imenja, Reivan noted. “I want you all to think about this carefully. My spies are gathering as much information as they can about the new White. I would like to know what Skills and strength Auraya has retained.”
The Voices and their Companions nodded. After a measured silence, Nekaun smiled and, without warning, looked at Reivan. A thrill ran through her body and she felt herself flush.
“Now, to other matters. Tell us, Reivan, how many raider ships have our Elai friends sunk this week?”
4
Stopping before the bridge, Mirar looked up at the two-story stilt house and smiled. He hadn’t visited a Dreamweaver House in a century... if he didn’t count his visit to the one in Somrey, when he had been Leiard. They had long ago disappeared from Northern Ithanian cities and towns so it had been a pleasant surprise to find they still existed in Southern Ithania.
He crossed the bridge, approached the door and knocked.
Footsteps sounded on a wooden floor inside, then the door opened and a middle-aged woman in Dreamweaver robes looked out. Mirar hesitated, sure that he had missed something, then realized he had been expecting to hear the rattle of a lock being opened.
The Dreamweavers in Southern Ithania don’t even lock their doors!
“Greetings. I am Dreamweaver Tintel,” the woman said, smiling and opening the door wider. What she said afterward was incomprehensible to him, but he sensed friendliness and her gesture told him she was welcoming him inside.
“Thank you. I am Dreamweaver Wilar.” He stepped into a small room. Pairs of sandals sat neatly at the edges. Removing shoes while indoors was a local custom. He could hear the sound of many voices somewhere beyond the walls.
Reaching into his bag, he took out the pouch of coins Rikken’s assistant, Yuri, had given him. When Mirar had refused to take the large payment for his services, Yuri had told him to give the money to the Dreamweaver House instead.
“For the House,” Mirar said in the Avven tongue as he handed it to Tintel, hoping she understood.
The woman took the bag and looked inside. Her eyebrows rose. She said something he did not understand. When he frowned and shook his head, she stopped to consider him, and he saw comprehension dawn in her eyes.
“You are a foreigner?” she asked in Avven.
“Yes. From the north.”
“We do not often get visitors from there.”
That does not surprise me, he thought. He bent to remove his shoes. When he was done the hostess opened another door, revealing a much larger room. Tables ran the length of it and many of the chairs were occupied by Dreamweavers.
“We are near to eating dinner. Join us.”
He followed her in. Tintel spoke loudly and the Dreamweavers turned to regard her and Mirar. He guessed she was introducing them and made the formal gesture of touching heart, mouth and forehead. All smiled and a few spoke a greeting, but none returned the gesture. After Tintel had led him to a chair the Dreamweavers returned to their conversation.
The atmosphere was relaxed and though Mirar couldn’t understand them he was reassured by their laughter. Servants brought a meal of flat toasted bread laid on top of bowls full of a spicy stew, and a milky drink that, to Mirar’s relief, eased the burning of the spice. Most of the Dreamweavers were young, he noted. Their talk quietened and grew more serious as their bellies filled. Tintel had joined them when the food had been served, and now she looked at Mirar.
“What do you know of the trouble in Jarime, Wilar?” she asked in Avvenan.
He frowned. “I know crowds of Circlians have gathered to speak out against the... the hospice.” He used the Hanian word, unable to think of an Avvenan equivalent.
Tintel grimaced. “It is worse. Dreamweavers have been beaten. Killed. A Dreamweaver House was burned.”
“There is no...” Mirar stopped as he realized what she must mean. There were no Dreamweaver Houses in Jarime, but there were a few safehouses - homes of people who were sympathetic to Dreamweavers and offered them accommodation.
People like Millo and Tanara Baker. He felt a chill as he thought of the couple he had stayed with while in Jarime. Only locals and friends had known their home was a safehouse - until I came along. Then I became Dreamweaver Adviser to the White and a lot more people would have known about the Bakers’ safehouse. I hope it wasn’t their house that was burned.
“I had not heard about this,” he said. “I will link with Northern Dreamweavers tonight to find out what I can of my friends there.”
“What brings you to Dekkar?” a young man asked.
Mirar shrugged. “I like travelling. I wanted to see the south.”
“Not to escape the killings?”
Tintel made a warning sound and gave the man a disapproving look. Mirar smiled.
“It is a fair question,” he said. “I did not know it would get so bad there so quickly. I am happy it is good here, but I wish I could help my friends.”
The men and women around the table nodded in sympathy.
“It is good here for Dreamweavers,” one of the young men said.
Mirar nodded. “I found the Servants...” He searched for the right word. “... friendly.”
“They don’t know healing like we do,” a young woman said. “They pay well, too.”
“The Servants let you heal them?” he asked, surprised.
The Dreamweavers nodded.
“I heard linking is forbidden in the north. Is that true?” the young woman asked.
“It is.” As Mirar looked at her, she smiled. Something about the smile made him look closer. As he recognized the subtle messages in her posture and expression he felt his pulse quicken.
Ah. This one knows what she likes in a man and isn’t afraid to seek it, he thought. He wouldn’t be surprised if she sought him out later. The question was, what would he do if she did?
“Dreamweavers don’t link at all?” someone asked.
He turned to nod at the young woman. “We do, but we don’t tell Circlians about it.”
A murmur of amusement came from the Dreamweavers. The young woman continued to smile at him.
“You must not have many chances to link, if you travel a lot. We could link tonight.”
It’s not mind linking she means, he found himself thinking. But mind linking would be a great risk. I have too much to hide... though now that Emerahl has helped me regain the ability to shield my mind I should be able to listen to them without revealing myself. But not tonight.
“Thank you, but I need sleep more,” he told her.
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