Voice of the Gods aotft-3

by Trudi Canavan

  “What does the script say, Emmea?” Ray asked.

  She moved forward and traced her fingers over the carvings. “It says: ‘Even that which has no flesh may die.’ ”

  “A tomb for a goddess,” Kereon said.

  “Well at least this time we won’t be disturbing a corpse,” Barmonia said lightly. Bracing his hands against the edge of the box, he pushed. Nothing happened. Ray joined him and the lid slowly slid aside with a dry, scraping sound.

  The men drew in a collective breath of awe and greed.

  The torchlight reflected from precious metals and gems. A tangle of chains, vessels, bangles and weapons filled the box, but it was the gold object in the center that demanded attention.

  A gold scroll, Emerahl thought. I suppose parchment would have rotted away.

  It lay open, the “parchment” artfully curved in a way real skin would not have. The rods at either end were a twisted mess of elaborate trimming, patterns and projections, studded with gems. The runes were also decorated, some so much that the shape of them was distorted.

  “It’s beautiful,” Kereon breathed.

  No, it isn’t, Emerahl thought. It’s garish and overdone.

  “What does it say, Emmea?” Yathyir asked.

  Making herself ignore the sheer ugliness of the object, Emerahl focused on the script. She nearly groaned aloud.

  “It rhymes. It’s poetry. Very bad poetry.”

  “But what does it say?”

  Emerahl paused to read. “It’s a history. It tells how the goddess was grieved by the deaths of other gods and... that’s interesting. It says she helped kill them, and felt a terrible guilt.” She paused to read more. “She gave her priest all the secrets of the gods. Here it says she bade him record them in an indestructible form. Then... Well!”

  “What?” Barmonia demanded.

  Emerahl looked up at him and smiled. “Then she killed herself. Here. In this very place. Do the gods become ghosts, I wonder.”

  Yathyir looked around nervously and the others smiled.

  “And the secrets?” Ray asked.

  “The scroll doesn’t describe them,” she told him, frowning as she realized it was true.

  The Twins are going to be disappointed, she thought, feeling an unexpected bitterness. And I’ve put up with the Thinkers for nothing. At least it won’t matter if Ray destroys the scroll. It’s worth only what money the gold would fetch if it were melted down.

  “Let’s take all this out,” Barmonia said. Everyone fell silent as he bent to pick up the scroll. He grunted as he lifted it.

  “It’s heavy,” he said. “Yathyir?”

  The young man’s eyes widened and he held out his hands for the scroll. “Yes?”

  “Not this, you idiot,” Barmonia growled. “Climb back up and bring us something to carry it all in. Packs would be best. Empty packs.”

  As Yathyir obediently hurried out of the building, Emerahl followed him. She stepped outside and breathed a sigh of relief as magic surrounded her. Nothing bad had happened to her. Perhaps whatever trap had been set for immortals had long ago deteriorated.

  “Emmea?” Ray called.

  She turned to see him staring at the remnants of the wooden door, still half buried.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He pointed at the door. “What does this say?”

  Forcing herself to step back inside, she turned to the door and saw that large glyphs had been carved into the surface. She felt a chill.

  “It says: ‘Beware, immortals,’ ” she told him. “There’s more.”

  He cleared away more of the rubble, revealing the rest of the message.

  “Beware, immortals. No magic lies within. Enter and know your true age.”

  She felt a smile tugging at her lips. No magic. A void. Whoever had carved this had believed immortals couldn’t exist within voids. They probably imagined that, without magic to sustain them, immortals would revert to their true age.

  That would be an impressive, though ghoulish, sight. She turned away so Ray would not see her smile. It’s nice to know gods and their priests don’t always know everything.

  But still, she longed to get out of this place and into the sunlight, and away from these selfish, arrogant men. Tonight she would dictate as much of the poem as she could remember to The Twins. Tomorrow... tomorrow she would congratulate the Thinkers and start the long journey back to familiar lands.

  31

  Danjin stared at the cover of the platten and slowly realized he was awake. The two men opposite him were conscious but their attention was elsewhere. Gillen looked more alert than he had for any of the journey so far, rubbing his hands together in excitement and anticipation, while Yem was even more subdued than usual. The warrior had worn a constant frown since they’d left the fort and Danjin suspected he was caught between sympathy for the servants that had escaped oppressive clan rule and outrage that the Pentadrians had subverted them.

  Danjin looked at Ella. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was slow.

  Ultimately I have to trust her and the wisdom of the gods. If this tough stance on associating with Pentadrians wasn’t needed we wouldn’t be ambushing a village with the help of the local warriors.

  The platten slowed. Ella moved abruptly to open the flap of the cover.

  “We’re here.”

  Danjin felt his stomach sink, but said nothing. He heard the sounds of doors slamming and distant shouts. Angry and frightened voices surrounded the platten as it slowed to a stop.

  Ella smoothed her circ, then looked at Yem, Gillen and Danjin.

  “Stay close,” she said, then pulled the flap wide and stepped out.

  Danjin followed, then Yem and Gillen. Men and women milled around the platten. When they saw Ella their eyes widened and they quietened. A few faces betrayed dismay and alarm. Others showed amazement and curiosity.

  Looking along the street, Danjin saw warriors ushering people toward the growing crowd. Men, women and children emerged from houses, some dressed in their nightclothes. From another direction came a large group of locals. From the sweat on their brows Danjin guessed they had been gathered from homes and farms further from the village center.

  As the crowd swelled, Danjin looked closely at the people. In the torchlight the physical characteristics that marked them as Dunwayan or Southern Ithanian were heightened. Pentadrians varied from pale to dark-skinned, and their builds could be as varied, so it was easier to identify them simply as those that didn’t look Dunwayan. He judged the crowd to be a quarter Pentadrian.

  A group of Dunwayan warriors, their faces almost black from tattooing, surrounded the villagers. The gray-haired clan leader, Gret, stepped forward. He made the sign of the circle.

  “We have brought the occupants of all of the local farms and homes,” he told her. “Some may have evaded us.”

  Ella nodded. “Who leads this community?” she asked, her voice ringing out above the noise of the crowd.

  A discussion followed. Danjin made out enough to understand that an elder of the village spoke for the village when dealing with the local clan. The man came forward.

  “Who leads the Pentadrian community?” she demanded of him.

  He hesitated, but Ella had already turned away from him.

  “Servant Warwel, come forward.”

  Silence followed. People exchanged nervous glances. Ella’s eyes moved over them and stopped.

  “You can walk, Servant Warwel,” Ella said warningly, “or be dragged. It is your choice.”

  A man moved forward. He was tall and walked with dignity. His expression was grim and resigned. He stopped a few steps from Ella and returned her stare silently.

  “People of Dram, you have been deceived. This man and those of his ship were sent here by the leader of the Pentadrians, Nekaun,” Ella said, turning to meet the eyes of the village elder. “Their ship was not wrecked accidentally. It was wrecked deliberately so that they might gain the sympathy of Dunwayans. They were then
to settle here and befriend as many Dunwayans as possible in order to convert them to their own religion.”

  She looked out over the crowd. “They have succeeded far too easily. I see many here who have been corrupted by their influence. I also see many who were then lured out of service to their clans with promises of freedom. Clans whose warriors had fought for them but a few years ago. Fought those who invaded our lands in order to enslave us.” A murmur of protest rose, but Ella raised her voice. “They may have used gentler methods this time, but do not doubt that their intention is the same. This is - was - just another invasion. They came here to separate you from the Circle of Gods, abusing your generosity and preying upon your weaknesses in order to do so.”

  She paused to scan the crowd silently for a moment. “It is a pity you all allowed this to go as far as it has. I see some here who did not allow themselves to be corrupted, but who remained silent out of fear or greed. I see very few here who were powerless to protest or act and I will speak in their defense. As for the rest of you: it is up to I-Portak to decide what is to be done with you, Pentadrian and Dunwayan alike.”

  Turning to Gret, Ella nodded. “They are yours to deal with.”

  The clan leader barked out orders and warriors began to move people along the road out of the village. Danjin noted that the old warrior was making a good show of following Ella’s orders with distaste. Every time a crying child was herded past, Gret looked at Ella pointedly. She ignored him, her expression stern and disapproving.

  “Where are you taking us?” someone called.

  “To Chon,” a warrior replied.

  “Let us go back to our homes for clothes,” one woman begged of a warrior. “We’ll freeze to death like this.”

  “My cures,” an old man croaked. “I won’t make it without my cures.”

  “What will we eat?”

  “My mother is sick. She’ll never make it to Chon.”

  Gret turned to one of his companions. “Get someone to take the woman and the old man back to their homes.”

  At once several other voices rose pleading for the same opportunity.

  “No,” Ella said. “Take a few and the rest will demand the same. Keep the prisoners here and send a few warriors to the houses to gather blankets, food and clothing for all.”

  Gret’s eyebrows rose, then he nodded at his companion. “Do it.”

  Danjin felt a chill run down his spine. Surely a delay now would be better than deaths along the road...

  Ella turned to Danjin. “Find out what the old man needs and fetch it,” she murmured.

  “Yes, Ellareen of the White,” he replied.

  He hurried away and started looking for the old man. Circling around the crowd, he looked back to where Ella stood. She held her head high and was staring loftily down her nose at her prisoners. He felt his stomach sink a little.

  She’s only doing that in order to intimidate them into obedience, he told himself.

  But they will remember it. They will tell others how cold and uncaring Ellareen the White is. How cruel and inflexible the White’s justice was.

  He shook his head. She has to do this. She can’t override Dunwayan law. And if she was without pity she wouldn’t have sent me to find the old man’s cures.

  Then why did he feel as if he wasn’t watching an act? Why did he suspect that Ellareen hadn’t tried to persuade the Dunwayans to treat the village with some sympathy because she didn’t want to?

  Why did she disturb him sometimes?

  Sighing, he turned away, found the old man and pulled him aside to question him.

  The Sanctuary was not as impressive as the Temple in Jarime. There was no huge White Tower or Dome looming over all, just a wide stairway and a single-story façade of welcoming arches, then a jumble of buildings rising up the hillside behind.

  Perhaps that’s the idea, Mirar mused. They don’t want to intimidate visitors; they want them to feel welcome.

  The winds had not taken them as far as Genza had hoped, so they had had to travel the rest of the way in a platten. The litter that he and Genza had ridden in from the ferry port stopped and the carriers lowered it to the ground. As Genza rose, Mirar followed suit. She smiled.

  “Welcome to Sanctuary, Mirar of the Dreamweavers.”

  “Thank you.”

  Gesturing for him to follow, she started up the stairs. They passed through one of the archways into a wide, airy hall full of black-robed Servants and ordinary people.

  “This is where we greet all visitors to the Sanctuary,” Genza told him. “Servants listen to all, from the lowest beggar to the wealthy and powerful, and direct them to whoever can best meet their needs.”

  Mirar noted that some of the visitors were talking boldly and confidently to the Servants. Others were tentative, waiting nervously to be approached or keeping their gaze lowered as they talked. Sensing distress, Mirar found a Servant patting the shoulder of a crying woman.

  “Do you think you could find my daughter?” he heard the woman ask.

  “We can only try,” the Servant replied. “Are you sure her father took her?”

  “Yes. No... I...”

  A laugh drew his attention to a richly dressed man crossing the hall in the company of a male Servant.

  “... like to present gifts to the Elai as well. After all, they sank the ships that were...”

  Elai sinking ships? He resisted the urge to look back at the man.

  “This is the main courtyard,” Genza said. “From here passages lead to all areas of the Sanctuary.”

  The courtyard was fringed by a veranda. He made appreciative comments as she pointed out the fountain and told him that it both helped cool the air and the noise made discussions more private. As they continued deeper into the Sanctuary he noted how the Servants paused to watch her, tracing a sign over their chest if she happened to look their way. He sensed admiration and respect - even adoration - from them.

  He also sensed curiosity directed toward himself and wondered how much they knew about him. Were they curious because Dreamweavers weren’t often seen in the Sanctuary? Did they wonder if he was the legendary, immortal founder of the Dreamweavers, or did they already know who he was, having been told Genza was bringing him here?

  Genza guided him along corridors and through courtyards, climbing ever upward. Occasionally he glimpsed the city from a window or balcony, and each time the view was more impressive. As they continued further into the Sanctuary Mirar felt a nagging uneasiness.

  I’m completely at a disadvantage here, he mused. The Voices may be more powerful than me. Even if not individually, they would be if united. They’re surrounded by hundreds, maybe thousands, of mortal sorcerers willing to do their bidding.

  I expected that. What I didn’t expect was that this place would be such a maze. Without Genza I’d be completely lost.

  Yet he did not feel in danger here. The noises of the city were distant, he sensed no threatening emotions from the Servants he passed, and the sprawling design of the Sanctuary, with its many courtyards and corridors open to the air, suggested a place of relaxation and tranquillity. Still, this was also a place of political and magical strength, and he did not let the subtle magical barrier about himself fall.

  At last Genza stepped out of a corridor onto a long, wide balcony occupied by several men and women sitting in reed chairs. All looked up at him, their gazes bright with interest.

  “This is Mirar, leader of the Dreamweavers,” Genza told them. She glanced at him. “Dreamweaver Mirar, this is Second Voice Imenja.”

  The woman she gestured to was tall and slim. It was hard to guess her physical age.

  This was the one who faltered during the last war, allowing Auraya to kill Kuar, he thought.

  She smiled politely. “I am pleased to meet you at last. Genza has found much to praise about you.”

  Mirar inclined his head. “A pleasure to meet you, too, Second Voice.”

  “This is Third Voice Vervel,” Genza continued, wavi
ng at a man with a robust build.

  I remember him from the war, but I know nothing about him. I’ll have to fix that.

  “This is Fifth Voice Shar.”

  The slim, handsome young man with the blond hair smiled, and Mirar nodded in reply.

  He’s the one who breeds the vorn. The one the southern Dreamweavers say can be cruel.

  Genza then introduced the others. They were “Companions” and their roles were as assistants and advisers to the Voices. The Twins and Auraya had already told him about them.

  “Join us, Dreamweaver Mirar,” Second Voice Imenja invited, gesturing to an empty chair.

  Mirar sat down and accepted a glass of water from one of the Companions.

  “We have been discussing, of all things, war,” Imenja told him.

  “Any particular war?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “All wars. Warfare as a subject. Dreamweavers do not fight wars, do they?”

  “No. We acknowledge the need for a person or country to defend themselves, but our vow to never do harm prevents us from fighting ourselves.”

  “So you don’t approve of our invasion of Northern Ithania, but would approve of us defending ourselves if we were invaded?” Imenja asked.

  He nodded.

  “Yet your people don’t help in the defense of their country.”

  “We do only by healing the wounded.”

  “You heal the wounded of both sides.”

  “Yes. My people honor their vows to heal all those in need as much as their loyalty to their homeland, knowing that Dreamweavers everywhere would do the same.”

  “I see.”

  “Surely this causes conflicts between Dreamweavers and the people of their land?” the woman’s Companion asked. “Don’t people resent Dreamweavers for helping the enemy?”

  “Of course.” Mirar smiled. “As often as someone may be grateful to a Dreamweaver of their enemy’s land for saving one of their own.”

  “The White and Circlians have caused your people great harm,” Vervel said. “Would your people fight them?”

  Mirar shook his head. “No.”

  “Not to escape oppression? Not for the freedom to follow your own ways?”