He’d cursed his luck when he’d been sent here. The capital cities of Mur and Dekkar were villages compared to Avven’s, and in comparison to them Klaff was a one-house hamlet. The troupes of actors he used to enjoy watching never came here. He had to order wine or any delicacy or luxury he craved from Glymma, at great expense, and his wife constantly complained about the noise of the birds. The only consolation was the Baths. They were as good as, if not better, than those at Glymma’s Sanctuary.
The hills around the town were riddled with caves and some contained springs. The water was not as pure as that at the Sanctuary but the locals claimed the red-brown coloring was from a mineral that was good for one’s health. The mineral was filtered out of the drinking water and sold throughout Southern Ithania as a rejuvenating mud that could be painted onto the skin.
Birds wheeled not far above, their screeching deafening. He winced and turned back to the door. Sometimes he couldn’t help agreeing with his wife. It was not a pleasant sound.
A domestic greeted Teroan, tracing the sign of the gods over his chest, and ushered him down a familiar corridor. Most of the doors they passed were curtained with hangings, but a few were uncovered. He glimpsed slaves in these, near naked, scrubbing the walls. A sharp smell stung his nostrils and made his eyes water. He wondered how the slaves endured it.
The domestic stopped at a door and waved Teroan inside. The room he walked into had been recently cleaned. Teroan thought it a shame, as the patterns that the green mold formed had made it easy for him to imagine he was soaking in some natural pool in the middle of a forest somewhere.
Still, the mold had smelled bad. The room now smelled like the ocean. He chuckled as he approached the room’s only other occupant.
“Sea salts again, Dameen?”
The man looked up and grinned. “Reminds me of home.”
Teroan peeled off the layers of his Servant robes and tossed them on a bench next to Dameen’s neatly folded ones. He stepped down into the tepid water, then lowered himself onto one of the ledges. The red-brown murk of the water did not quite hide his rolls of fat or the absence of his friend’s legs below the knees. Somehow Dameen had managed to keep his muscular good looks despite his injury. Teroan suspected the man maintained a routine of exercise out of habit, unable to completely put aside his warrior training.
They sat in silence for some time, content to relax in each other’s company.
“I had a strange dream last night,” Dameen said eventually.
“Oh?”
“I dreamed the leader of the Dreamweavers came to Southern Ithania.”
Teroan looked at his friend in surprise. “I dreamed of the same man last night. I suppose the rumors of his return are working on our minds. What happened in your dream?”
“I asked myself what I’d do if I was one of the Voices...” He paused and frowned. “Or maybe someone else asked me... I can’t remember.”
“The same happened in my dream. What did you decide?”
“That I’d do nothing, so long as he didn’t cause trouble.”
Teroan nodded. “Me, too. It could only be a good thing, if he returned. He made the Dreamweavers good at healing; he might make them even better. We owe them a lot for the help they gave us after the battle, too.”
“Yes.” Dameen looked down at the stumps of his legs and shrugged. “But then I’m biased. This morning I found myself thinking about it again. The Voices might not see it that way. They’d see a powerful sorcerer who might turn people against them.”
“What do you think they’d do?”
“Kuar would have made him an ally.” He frowned. “I don’t know Nekaun. I have no idea what he’d do.”
Teroan smiled. The warrior couldn’t help himself. He was supposed to have left his past behind him, but while his body might no longer be whole his mind was as lively as ever.
A waste, he thought. He couldn’t accept anyone in place of Kuar, so he wound up here, his potential as an adviser lost.
For that Teroan was selfishly grateful. If Dameen left Klaff, who else around here was interesting and intelligent enough to talk to? Certainly not the bird breeders. Or his wife.
“Do you think it strange that we had the same dream on the same night?” Teroan asked.
Dameen’s sharp eyes narrowed. “You suspect Dreamweavers of meddling in our dreams?”
Teroan shrugged. “Two people dreaming the same dream on the same night is only coincidence. If we find anyone else has had the same dream, perhaps there is more to it.”
“And if Mirar does appear in Southern Ithania?”
Teroan nodded. “Yes. That might convince me, too.”
Glowing coals were all that was left in the brazier. Cushions had been scattered before the hearth, and a woman lay sleeping upon them. Beside her was an empty cup and a jug. Danjin paused to admire the curve of her hip and fine angles of her face before walking toward her. He felt a warm affection. Truly he was lucky to have Silava as a wife.
There had been times he thought himself cursed, but they were long ago and best forgotten.
She stirred, probably at the sound of his sandals on the floor. Her eyes opened and she blinked at him, then smiled.
“Danjin,” she said.
“Silava. You weren’t waiting for me, were you?”
“Yes and no. I was having a private celebration. If you happened to turn up to join me, all the better.”
“What are you celebrating?”
“We,” she corrected, “are celebrating the birth of another grandchild. A granddaughter.”
He looked at her in surprise. “She arrived early?”
“Yes.” Silava hesitated. “I want to stay with Tivela a while.”
He nodded. “Yes. Help with the baby. When will you leave?”
Silava narrowed her eyes at him. “You aren’t displaying nearly enough reluctance or disappointment at the prospect of my absence for my satisfaction.”
“No,” he agreed, chuckling. “Though I have been led to believe that would go against all laws of nature and the gods.”
Her eyes narrowed further.
“I have some news of my own,” he told her quickly. “You may wish to hear it before you flay the skin from my body.”
“Oh?”
“Ellareen is going to Dunway and she wants me with her.”
“Oh.” She looked downcast, then she smiled and regarded him triumphantly as she rose to her feet. “See. That’s how one shows disappointment. It’s quite simple, and should be well within the abilities of an adviser. Why Dunway?”
“Hania is not the only county the Pentadrians have tried converting. They sent their Servants all over Northern Ithania - except Si, for some reason. Maybe because Auraya is there, though I have no idea why that would deter them.”
“They did send people into Si,” Silava said. “It was the reason Auraya went back there.”
He smacked his palm against his forehead. “Of course! I forgot about that. It seems like so long ago.”
Silava linked her arm in his and nudged him toward the door. “You miss her, don’t you?”
Danjin frowned. “I suppose I do.”
“You don’t like Ella as much, do you?”
He looked at her in surprise. “Why do you say that?”
“You don’t talk about her in the same way. Do you like her?”
He shrugged. “Ella’s likeable but... With Auraya I knew there were things she couldn’t tell me but it was easy to forget that. With Ella I’m reminded of it all the time.”
“Maybe she has more secrets than Auraya did.”
Danjin laughed. “More than Auraya? I hope not!” Or at least not such scandalous secrets. He couldn’t imagine Ella taking a Dreamweaver as a lover. He couldn’t imagine Ella taking anyone as a lover. Though as passionate about her work as Auraya, she was somehow colder and more distant.
But maybe that was only because it was taking longer for him to relax around her. Auraya hadn’t broken his trust,
but he had been disappointed with her for having an affair with Leiard. He had never forgiven himself for not noticing something was going on. He hadn’t even had a chance to advise her against such foolishness. Now he couldn’t help watching Ella closely, ready to offer a sensible viewpoint if she faced a similar dilemma.
They reached the doorway and stepped out into the corridor. Silava yawned. “Or maybe Auraya is one of Ella’s secrets.”
He considered his wife. “You think there’s more to Auraya’s resignation, then?”
“Maybe.” She shrugged. “Not that it would matter to anyone now. She’s gone. Ella’s taken her place. Hmm, you still haven’t told me why Ella’s going to Dunway.”
“The Pentadrians are up to something there.”
“Not murdering more Dreamweavers, are they?”
He shook his head. “We’re not sure what, which is why we’re going.” The shocking revelations about the Pentadrians’ plot in Jarime had spread through the city quickly, and the protests against the hospice and attacks on Dreamweavers had stopped. At the same time, dozens of people had been either dragged to the Temple, beaten, driven out of their homes or even murdered, at sometimes the mere suspicion of being Pentadrian. Ella had not been as dismayed by this as he had expected.
“People like having something to direct their hate at,” Ella had said. “The Pentadrians are far more deserving of it than the Dreamweavers.”
“But some of the people who have been attacked aren’t Pentadrians,” he’d pointed out.
“Yes, and we’ve compensated them - after we confirmed their innocence, of course.”
“Once this plot is forgotten, people will start worrying about Dreamweavers again,” he’d warned.
“Then we’ll have to keep reminding them who the true enemy is.”
Silava squeezed his arm, drawing his attention back from his thoughts. “I meant, why is Ella going, not one of the other White? She’s a bit new to her role to be given such a task.”
Danjin shrugged. “They must consider her capable enough. And the sooner she gains some experience of other lands the better.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“I don’t know. Months, probably.”
Silava sighed. “At least you’re not going to war. A warrior nation, but not a war.” She yawned again. “I’m too tired to think about it. Let’s get some sleep.”
He gave in to a yawn of his own as they went upstairs. News upon news. “Another grandchild,” he murmured. “A man could start feeling old.”
Silava’s eyebrows rose, but she said nothing. Her silence came as a surprise.
No teasing? She really must be tired.
He took that as a hint to hold his tongue and followed her into the bedroom. Despite his weariness he lay awake, his mind too full of matters he must take care of before leaving.
“Yes. The counters set. That’ll do,” Silava murmured suddenly.
“What?”
“Oh.” He heard her turn her head toward him. “Are you still awake?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry.”
“What were you thinking about?”
“Packing,” she said. “I have two lots of packing to do now.”
“You don’t have to pack for me.”
She laughed. “Since when have you packed for yourself? Go to sleep. And don’t worry. I’ll arrange everything.”
14
Shadows sat below Tintel’s eyes. The woman looked older than her years as she regarded Mirar with weary patience.
“What is it, Wilar?”
He took a step back. “You’re tired. I will return tomorrow.”
“No, come in.” She beckoned and turned away, giving him no chance to retreat.
“I’ll be brief then,” he said, stepping into the room and closing the door.
She collapsed into a chair and waved toward another. “You wouldn’t have come here if you didn’t have something you needed to discuss. Have the boys been gossiping again?”
He smiled. “I don’t know. Probably.”
“If it bothers you I will tell them to stop.”
“Which would make no difference at all,” he told her. “They respect and admire you greatly, Dreamweaver Tintel, but trying to stop gossip is like trying to stop the tide.” He shook his head. “No, the only ill effect is that it will make what I have to tell you harder to believe.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Will it? What unbelievable news do you have, then?”
He looked at her and considered what he was about to do. It was a risk. There were benefits to remaining anonymous. None of the hassles of trying to please everyone, for a start.
Yet where would that leave his people? They were strong in this place, but not in others. Perhaps he was wrong in thinking he could help them, but when he looked at Tintel’s worn and weary face he felt a pang of affection and knew he had to try.
“They’re right,” he told her. “I am Mirar.”
She blinked with surprise, opened her mouth to speak, then paused and frowned at him thoughtfully.
“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.
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