Voice of the Gods aotft-3

by Trudi Canavan

  And he wasn’t liking it much. Ah, Danjin, she thought. I miss you.

  :I understand. Thank you, Danjin.

  Breaking the link, she roused herself to full consciousness, looked around the hall and sighed.

  Well, Chaia did warn me that Huan would use those I love against me.

  The large, tiled room echoed with the chatter of Voices, Companions, Servants and Thinkers. Standing beside Imenja, Reivan looked down at the floor. The mosaic map glinted softly, reflecting the light of lamps brought in to supplement what daylight reached the room from the entrance. Pottery figurines of Pentadrians and Circlians had been placed on the floor. They looked like toys left behind by a child. A rich child, too, as the figurines were finely detailed. Reivan saw that there were little Siyee men among the Circlians. Unlike the winged people depicted in the mosaic, they were accurately represented right down to the bones visible within the membranes of their wings.

  “Nekaun comes,” a voice murmured from the direction of the entrance.

  All fell silent and turned to wait. As Nekaun stepped into the room many hands sketched the symbol of the star. A strange expression was on Nekaun’s face, but it vanished at the greeting. He looked around the room, meeting gazes and nodding.

  “Forgive me for my lateness,” he said. “Another matter delayed me.” He moved to the edge of the map and looked down at the Circlian figurines. “Is this where the enemy army is?”

  “According to our spies,” Dedicated Servant Meroen replied. The man was only in his thirties, but had proven himself an intelligent strategist during the previous war.

  Nekaun paced around the map. All eyes followed him. Reivan heard Imenja’s barely audible snort and guessed what her mistress was thinking. The First Voice didn’t need to circle the map - he just liked to be the focus of attention.

  “Has the Sennon emperor responded to my message?” Nekaun asked, this time looking at Vervel.

  The Third Voice shook his head. “No.”

  Nekaun must know this, Reivan thought, but he had probably asked for the benefit of the others. He nodded and looked around the room.

  “Can anyone suggest a way we might change his mind?”

  When no answer came, Nekaun frowned and his gaze returned to the white figurines.

  “How large is the Circlian army?”

  Now several people began to speak. Meroen spoke of thousands gathered so far, then others began to debate how many more might join them. The Dunwayans had yet to join the army. Then there was the question of whether the Sennons would, or if they would remain uninvolved except to allow passage of the Circlian army.

  “There are fewer Siyee this time,” he added.

  “How fast is the Circlian army travelling?” Nekaun asked. “When will they reach the Isthmus?”

  “At a steady pace; if no sandstorms delay them, one cycle of the moon,” Shar said. “They travel through desert and will have to take water and food with them. The town of Diamyane will not be able to sustain them, so they will need to transport supplies from the north.”

  “So we attack their supply caravans.”

  “Or ships.”

  Nekaun smiled. “Our Elai friends may prove useful after all.” He looked at Imenja. “Have they replied to our request?”

  “I doubt it has reached them yet,” she answered.

  Nekaun looked around the room. “What are our strengths and weaknesses?”

  “We have few weaknesses,” Vervel said. “The Isthmus is an effective barrier. The Circlian army cannot cross in large numbers. We have plentiful supplies of food and water and fight on familiar ground. We should be able to raise an army to match theirs. Our fleets are equal and our crews are better trained.”

  Dedicated Servant Meroen shook his head. “Why do they attack us if they have no obvious advantage?”

  “They must have been relying on Auraya’s help,” Shar said.

  Nekaun smiled. “Perhaps. But they won’t have it.”

  “Will they turn back once they know she has been captured?” Genza asked.

  Several spoke in response.

  “Surely they already know.”

  “If they don’t we should make sure they know.”

  “Send them her corpse.”

  Nekaun was still smiling, but in a distracted way. It was the same strange expression he had been wearing when he had arrived. For some reason it sent a shiver up Reivan’s spine. There was something unpleasant in that smile.

  “When the Circlians reach the Isthmus they will be stalled,” Meroen said, pitching his voice loud enough to be heard. “But remember: the Isthmus is a barrier to us as well. We may find ourselves caught in a protracted war. Crops will go unplanted, traders will be unable to dock, and Voices will not be able to leave the Isthmus lest the White take advantage of their absence.”

  The room had quietened. Nekaun frowned at Meroen then his gaze shifted from face to face.

  “So what do we do to avoid a stalemate?”

  A murmuring began as the question was discussed.

  “We could hide our army behind the Sennon mountains,” a Thinker suggested. “When they arrive at Diamyane we attack them from all sides, and drive them into the sea.”

  “Siyee scouts would see us.”

  “And we lose our best advantage,” Nekaun said quietly. “The Isthmus. No. Let them settle in Diamyane. We will cut off their supplies. Let them starve a little before we break them.”

  He smiled again, his gaze shifting to some distant place for a moment. Reivan shivered and looked away. When she turned back she found him watching her. Suddenly she felt foolish. He was only anticipating victory. It was just disturbing to see a hint of bloodlust in the eyes of a man she had taken to bed. It ought to make him more exciting. Powerful. Dangerous.

  But it didn’t.

  He turned away, an entirely different expression on his face. She felt her insides turn cold.

  Unless she had imagined it... and she knew she hadn’t... it had been an expression of unconcealed contempt.

  39

  The Dunwayan army was an impressive sight.

  Warriors marched ten abreast along the road. At the head of each clan walked a man bare of all clothing but a short leather skirt and carrying a brightly painted spear. Members of the tribe took turns at the position, each stripping to reveal the tattoo patterns of their clan. They shared the role not to avoid enduring long hours of bad weather, if it came, but because all members of a clan would fight for the honor otherwise.

  Every other man in the army carried half or more of his body weight in weapons. Even the sorcerers carried them; having more than average Gifts did not excuse any warrior from proper war training. Two-wheeled war platten pulled by reyna bred and trained for battle followed behind the troops; warriors would not suffer the indignity of tramping through reyner manure - except that left by the beasts pulling the platten of their leader. Behind the cavalry were arem-drawn four-wheeled supply tarns and the clans’ servants.

  Danjin had a fine view of the column of fierceness. The platten he rode in had no cover. Ella and I-Portak sat facing the front, while Danjin and Dunwayan advisers rode facing the White and the Dunwayan leader.

  They did not have to look behind to know the army followed; the rhythmic pounding of boots was a constant background to their conversations. If Danjin looked past Ella and I-Portak he found himself easily hypnotized by the near-flawless rise and fall of heads and shoulders beyond.

  Watching the army make camp was even more fascinating. Everyone knew their task and worked without need for consultation or orders. All was done with practiced ease, a credit to their training. If any Dunwayans were anxious about the coming confrontation they didn’t show it.

  I wonder what happens to the failures. The boys who don’t grow up strong. The men who suffer injuries, illness or melancholy. Are they hidden away, or cast out of the tribe to become servants?

  He thought back to the day the army had left Chon. Women had lined the str
eets and thrown a tart-smelling herb onto the road for the warriors to march over. Some had looked stricken, others relieved.

  I hope my letters make it home. He suppressed a sigh. I wish I could have seen Silava and the girls. And even my father, though I’m sure he’ll outlive me even if I survive this war.

  He had dreamed of his family every night since hearing of the villagers’ fate. It had been bad enough witnessing the executions of the Pentadrians, though it was the reaction of the villagers that he would find hardest to forget. Some had cheered, some had cried, but most had huddled together silently, their faces white with fear. They’d had reason to fear. Dunwayan justice was harsh. Later, in Chon, those villagers who had been the most welcoming to the Pentadrians had been executed. Those who had simply not protested were sent to work in the mines. But to Danjin’s relief, I-Portak had been more lenient on those Ella had listed as being powerless to object to the Pentadrian presence. They, the old and the children, had been sent back to their village. Danjin imagined the village was now a sad place, populated by so few people.

  In his dreams of his own family, he had ridiculous conversations with his wife and daughters. Occasionally they were unaware that he was there, no matter how much he tried to get their attention. Thinking of those dreams now, he felt a familiar mix of fear and resignation. And sadness. If he didn’t return...

  Don’t think it, he told himself. If you think it, you’ll make it happen.

  But at some point between leaving Chon and now, the thought that he would not survive this war had taken hold of him and he’d been unable to shake it. Where is all the confidence I had during the previous war? He grimaced. It was not confidence, but ignorance.

  Or maybe Auraya had given him hope. To see her fly... it had been hard to imagine anything defeating her.

  He shivered. Last night, in a dream, she had told him the Voices had imprisoned her in Glymma. There had been no vision of her, just her voice, but the dream had seemed so real he had been certain that she had truly spoken to him. The next day he had told Ella of the dream and asked if she thought Auraya might have been communicating with him. Ella had said it was possible, but she hadn’t heard such news from the White or the gods.

  After the dream Danjin lay awake thinking about Auraya. He worried what might happen if she was a prisoner. If the Voices were powerful enough to hold her captive they were powerful enough to harm her - even kill her.

  But if they were, why hadn’t they?

  Now he worried that Auraya was, as Ella had warned, trying to trick him. He considered reasons why she might want him to believe she was a prisoner. To make me, and the White, believe she’s still on our side when she isn’t. Why would she do that? He sighed. To trick us into a confrontation that we can’t win.

  Sometimes he was sure it had been a dream, and he had nothing to worry about.

  :If it wasn’t a dream, Auraya is a prisoner, Ella’s voice said in his mind. If it was, we still have much to worry about. We haven’t heard from Auraya in weeks.

  Startled by the voice in his head, Danjin looked up at Ella.

  :Careful, she added. One of the advantages of mental conversations is that others aren’t aware of them. It kind of spoils things if you jump like that every time I speak to you.

  He looked away.

  :Do you have any idea where she is? he asked.

  :No. And no, the gods do not either.

  :What will happen if she has changed sides?

  :The gods are confident that they can prevent her fighting us.

  :Prevent her... they didn’t arrange for her to be imprisoned, did they?

  Her amusement was like a tinkle of glass.

  :Maybe. It would be quite a feat, wouldn’t it? Convince the enemy, without alerting their gods, to imprison someone who was willing to join them.

  She was right. It was a silly idea.

  :If she is a captive, then she hasn’t turned on us.

  :Not necessarily. She may have turned on the gods in her heart, but still was not willing to join the Pentadrians. And she may not be a prisoner at all.

  :She might not even be in Southern Ithania, he added, mostly to himself. She could be anywhere.

  :Then why doesn’t she contact us, or the gods? she asked.

  He couldn’t answer that. Glancing at Ella, he saw her lips twitch into a sympathetic smile. Then her expression suddenly grew serious. She stared into the distance and her face relaxed.

  “Juran informs me he has passed the last town before the pass. We should meet them within the week.”

  I-Portak turned to regard her. “Or earlier, if the weather holds.”

  She smiled. “Your warriors never cease to impress me with their stamina, I-Portak. Leave them a little strength for the journey across the desert.”

  His shoulders lifted slightly. “I am. We are not unfamiliar with desert conditions. Don’t tell the Sennon emperor this, but we have been sending small warrior groups into the desert to train for centuries.”

  She laughed quietly. “I’m sure the Sennon emperor is quite aware of that.”

  Danjin suppressed a smile as I-Portak regarded her with barely concealed dismay.

  “Do you mean all the secrecy we have practiced has been for nothing?” he eventually said.

  “Practice is the only route to perfection,” she said, quoting Dunwayan tradition.

  He chuckled and turned away. “And perfection only exists in the realm of the gods.” He shrugged. “So long as the emperor pretends ignorance, we will pretend that our forays into his land remain unknown.”

  Far out at the edges of the city was a training ground for warrior Servants. Auraya skimmed over the minds there, glimpsing practice bouts both physical and magical. When she found what she was looking for she smiled. Two Dedicated Servants were sharing a meal and discussing the size, strengths and weaknesses of the Pentadrian army.

  A loud clang of iron interrupted their conversation. For a moment she wondered why the man and woman hadn’t reacted. Then her stomach sank and dread clutched her heart as she realized her own ears were hearing the sound.

  Her awareness snapped back to her surroundings. Opening her eyes, she drew in a deep breath and let it out. The same four domestics hurried toward her. Nekaun strolled after them.

  The smell of flowers came with them. It sent her pulse racing though she wasn’t yet sure why this should bother her. Looking at the domestics, she realized they were all carrying buckets. Bags were slung over their shoulders. Obviously they were planning to do more than just wash and feed her.

  She resisted the temptation to look at Nekaun.

  The first domestic swung the bucket toward her. She braced herself for the chill water and nearly gasped as she was battered with warmth instead. Before she had recovered from the surprise the second domestic tipped more water over her head. This, too, was warm.

  Setting aside their empty buckets, the domestics drew objects out of their bags. Pottery jugs were uncorked. Hands drew out fistfuls of something resembling very fine wet sand.

  She flinched as the first spread the substance onto her arm and began to rub it against her skin. It was sand. This, she remembered, was how the locals preferred to clean themselves. The rich used a fine, rare sand from some distant place. The two domestics scrubbed her arms, neck and scalp then, to her embarrassment, worked ever lower. Their touch was efficient and their faces expressionless, but she gritted her teeth and tried not to show how much their touch unsettled her.

  All the time she felt Nekaun watching.

  Finally the domestics had scrubbed her all over. The other two approached with their buckets and carefully washed the sand off her skin. This rinse water held the perfume she had noticed earlier. It was cooler, but not cold.

  When they had stepped away Auraya’s skin tingled all over. It would have felt good to be clean, if Nekaun hadn’t been there.

  He hasn’t asked me any of his stupid questions yet, she realized. The domestics swept the dais and then hurr
ied from the hall. None had brought any food. Perhaps because there’s no point. Why bother feeding me if I’m about to die. But why clean me? Does he prefer to kill clean people?

  She nearly giggled at the silliness of that thought. But all humor vanished as he moved closer. Her skin felt too sensitive. Her body felt too exposed. She resisted the temptation to curl up as much as the chains would allow.

  “That’s better,” he said quietly. “Don’t misunderstand me. I like a bit of sweat and dirt. But not utter filth.”

  He stopped a mere step away. He’s just trying to intimidate me, she told herself. And he’s in the void now. He’s vulnerable too.

  Now that she would have to go out of her way to avoid looking at him, she met his gaze with what she hoped was a blank stare.

  He stared back.

  That’s different, she thought. He usually smiles and says something snide and ridiculous to point out that he’s in control.

  When he spoke next, it was in Avvenan. The two Servants guarding the door paused, then walked away.

  That sent a shiver of pure terror through her. Why send away the guards unless he was about to do something he didn’t even want his own people knowing about?

  “There,” he said. “A little privacy.” She resisted the urge to shrink away as he moved a hand toward her, then tried not to flinch as his fingers touched her throat. His hand curled around her neck, warm and firm.

  “So thin. I could throttle you right now,” he murmured. “But I don’t gain any pleasure from killing.” His gaze shifted lower. “Did I ever tell you that I was the Head Servant of the Temple of Hrun before I became First Voice?”

  His hand slid downward to her breast. Her mouth went dry. Intimidation, she repeated. Don’t react. Be boring. Give him nothing and he’ll lose interest and go away.

  “Hmm. How tense you are.” His breath was sickeningly warm. She tried not to breathe it in. “So am I. Here, I’ll show you.”

  He pressed his body against hers, pushing her against the stone wall. Smothered by black robes, revolted by his breath, she felt herself shudder in horror at the hardness of his groin beneath his robes.