[Age of the Five 02] - Last of the Wilds

by Trudi Canavan

  The corridor of the Middle Sanctuary ended at a large courtyard. Imenja and the other Voices strode across this, the Companions following, and entered an airy hall. A crowd of black robes filled the room. Reivan recognized the faces of many Dedicated Servants. She wondered how long they had been waiting here.

  The sound of chatter died and all heads turned toward the Voices, but the Pentadrian leaders did not stop. They crossed the hall and emerged at the top of the Main Stairs. As they appeared a roar of voices greeted them. The people of Glymma, and those who had travelled here to witness the election of the new First Voice, formed a great mass of upturned faces and waving arms.

  The four Voices formed a line. Standing behind them, Reivan could not see their expressions. She closed her eyes and let the great sound of the cheering crowd wash over her.

  “Fellow Pentadrians,” Imenja called, her voice rising above the noise.

  The cheering dwindled reluctantly. Looking past Imenja, Reivan saw many overly bright eyes in the crowd, and bottles and mugs clutched in several hands. She chuckled quietly to herself.

  It was a long wait. I guess they had to entertain themselves somehow.

  “Fellow Pentadrians,” Imenja repeated. “We have gathered the votes of Servants from all over the world. The day has been long, but this was too important a task to be hurried. The tally has been counted.” She held up the impressively long roll of parchment. “We have a new First Voice!”

  The crowd cheered again.

  “Come forward, Dedicated Servants of the Gods!”

  From the hall behind, men and women filed down the stairs. They began to form a long line across the bottom, turning to look up at the Voices.

  One of these people has convinced most of the Servants of the Gods that he or she will be a good leader, Reivan thought. She considered all the histories she’d read, of philosophical discussions on the qualities of a good leader. Do any of these candidates have the right qualities? What if none of them have? Would the gods intervene? She frowned. That would be quite a slap in the face. It would imply that most Servants didn’t know how to choose a good leader.

  Perhaps they don’t. She suddenly felt uneasy. How would they have chosen? She considered what she would have done, if she had been a Servant living far from Glymma. I guess I’d have dismissed anyone who’s caused trouble or made big mistakes. It would help if one of these people had proven his or herself capable of leading and making good decisions already. I think I’d prefer someone who’d fought in the war to one who hadn’t, but ultimately I’d have to take a gamble, based on the information I had. I wouldn’t choose anyone I didn’t like. Nobody’s going to vote for someone they dislike.

  The last of the Dedicated Servants joined the line. Imenja held up the roll of parchment. She waited until all was silent—or as quiet as a half-drunk crowd could manage. Then she let the parchment unroll.

  “The Servants of the Gods have chosen Dedicated Servant Nekaun as the new First Voice. Come forward, Nekaun.”

  As the crowd erupted in cheering again, Reivan felt her heart lift. She thought back to the man who had offered both congratulations and advice at her ordination, and smiled.

  Oh, good, she thought.

  Peering past Imenja’s shoulder, she watched Nekaun step forward. He looked composed and calm, but his eyes burned with excitement. I would have chosen him, she thought. He’s never made any great mistakes, has run the Temple of Hrun for a few years as well as fought in the war. He’s likeable and kind. And to top it off, he’s good-looking. That’s got to be an advantage in a leader! What more could the gods want? She watched in admiration as he stopped a few steps before Imenja and made the sign of the star.

  Imenja handed the parchment to Genza, who began to slowly roll it up again. From within her robe Imenja produced a star pendant. She held it up. The crowd slowly quietened.

  “Accept this symbol of the gods,” she said, “and you accept an eternity of servitude to them and to their people. You will become the Voice with which they speak to mortals. You will become the Hand that toils for our benefit, and strikes down our enemies.”

  He slowly reached out to take the chain, then bowed his head.

  “I accept the burden and the responsibility,” he said.

  He closed his eyes and draped the chain around his neck. Reivan saw him stiffen and an expression of wonder crossed his face. He straightened, looked up at Imenja and smiled.

  “And the gods have accepted me.”

  “Then take your place among us,” Imenja finished.

  Still smiling, he stepped up beside her and turned to face the crowd. Imenja gestured toward him, while regarding the crowd.

  “People of Glymma and beyond. Do you welcome Nekaun, First Voice of the Gods?”

  The crowd responded with a roar of approval. Imenja turned her head to regard him. “Will you address the people?”

  “I will.” He paused and waited until all was quiet. “My people. As I stand here before you I feel both joy and sadness. Joy that I have been gifted with the greatest opportunity to serve the gods that a man or woman may be given. Sadness that I take the place of a man I admired.

  “I willingly take on the same responsibilities that he bore, because our aims are the same. We must rid the world of the heathen Circlians. But do not fear that I will lead you into another war. That has been tried, and through ill chance or the will of the gods it failed.

  “I see another way to achieve our goal. We must show them their mistake and lead them to the true gods. We must draw them to our side gently, through persuasion and reason. For I believe truth and understanding are powerful forces, and they are forces we have in our favor. Using them, we cannot fail.” He raised his arms. “With them, we will conquer Northern Ithania!”

  It’s not the torch to the oil of glorious war that Kuar’s kill-and-take speech was, Reivan mused. The crowd roared anyway, fired up by the excitement of this momentous event, as well as drink and perhaps relief that there would not be another war for now.

  As Imenja addressed the crowd again, Reivan considered Nekaun’s goal. So he wants to convert the Circlians, she thought. I wonder how he plans to do that? Will he send Servants into Northern Ithania to woo the people there? I can’t imagine they’ll be given a warm welcome.

  Imenja finished. Nekaun glanced at her, then began to lead the Voices back to the hall. Reivan and the Companions followed. As they moved indoors, Servants crowded around, offering congratulations to their new leader. Reivan wondered how many of them had realized what Nekaun’s plan might mean for them. Travelling into Northern Ithania to convert Circlians might prove to be more dangerous than marching to war.

  I don’t envy them that task, she thought. Abruptly she realized she was not disqualified from it. But shouldn’t I want to go? Shouldn’t I be willing to do anything for the gods?

  I’m unSkilled and only a Servant-novice. I’m of more use here, serving Imenja.

  Yet she might not have any choice in the matter. What if Nekaun asked her to go? What if she ended up in a situation where he wanted her out of the way? She could see no reason for that now, but this was the world of politics and favor. Anything could change.

  Then there’s only one thing I can do, she decided. Make sure I give him no reason to want me gone.

  15

  The cave was dark when Mirar woke. Only a faint light was visible at the entrance. Emerahl usually woke earlier than he did and ventured outside to empty the buckets and bring in fresh water. He could not hear her breathing, so he guessed she had gone. Creating a spark of light, he strengthened it until the whole cave was illuminated.

  Emerahl was still in bed.

  At once he remembered. She was in the process of changing her age. He got up and moved over to her bed.

  He could only see her face, but it showed subtle signs of change. Skin that had been fresh and firm with youth now hung slightly looser on her cheekbones. The faintest lines had formed around her eyes and mouth. Strands of h
air had fallen out, forming a golden coating on the rough mattress she had made.

  He picked up a few strands. There were stripes of variation along the first hand span of its length. Successive dying, he guessed. Weaker each time. Why would she have dyed her hair?

  She said she had been an old woman before this, Leiard reminded him. Her hair could have been white. It must have stayed that way, despite the rest of her body changing to a more youthful form, but from then on it grew in her natural color.

  Yes, Mirar agreed. He looked at the strand. She must have dyed the white, first with cheap pigment then with better dye that that brothel provided.

  The brothel. He sighed and shook his head. She was so Gifted. Why must she resort to selling herself whenever she needed to hide?

  Because she had no choice, Leiard said.

  Of course she had a choice. Mirar scowled. She could have become a washer-woman or a fish-scaler.

  The priests would have looked over all women’s trades that an old crone might take up. By practicing a trade only young women could practice she could be sure she would never be examined by a priest.

  It made sense, but Mirar didn’t like it. The risk of discovery must have been small. Only one priest had been given the ability to read minds by the gods.

  She didn’t know that, Leiard reminded him.

  Mirar almost wished he hadn’t told her that the gods did not make a habit of giving priests that Gift. Now that Emerahl knew she was safe she wanted to roam about the world in search of other Wilds. He looked at her and felt a stab of concern.

  I should go with her, he thought.

  You can’t, Leiard pointed out. There’s a greater risk that I’ll be recognized than her. I’d only put us all in danger.

  Mirar nodded in agreement. Even in sleep there was a strength in her expression. Or perhaps he only imagined that. She’ll be fine. I doubt she’s suddenly become a risk-taker, he told himself. No, she’ll be as cautious as she has always been. He sighed and looked away. And me? I’m supposed to seek out people in order to cure myself. How foolish is that?

  Perhaps not overly foolish. He would seek out the Siyee—or most likely linger here until they found him.

  What excuse will I give them for coming here? he asked himself. Why would a Dreamweaver come to Si?

  To offer healing services, of course, Leiard replied.

  Healing was what he had always done best. Even as a child he’d had an unusual understanding of healing. Years of study and work had refined the Gift. Each time he had thought he had reached the limits of his powers something caused him to stretch himself further and he discovered he could do more. One day it had all culminated in a sudden flash of understanding in which he comprehended how his body might be sustained in a healthy, youthful state indefinitely.

  It had been the moment he had achieved immortality. Emerahl, too, had come to the same understanding. She did not have the intuitive aptitude with healing that he had. Instead, her innate Gift was this ability to change her age.

  And the other Wilds? He thought of the extraordinary people who had once roamed free in the world. The Farmer had been famous for his understanding of growing and raising crops, stock and all manner of produce. His innate Gift had probably related to that somehow. The Seer’s ability had been to predict a person’s probable path in life, though she had admitted to Mirar once that she did not see the future, she just saw the nature of mortals too well.

  The Gull had understood everything to do with the sea. He could find shoals of fish, warn against storms and was rumored to be able to change the weather to a limited degree. The Twins…Mirar had never been entirely sure what their abilities were. He had never met them, but someone had once told him they understood the duality of everything in the world, that they perceived connections and balances where nobody else could.

  Where the magic was in that talent, he didn’t know. Most likely he would never find out. They had probably been killed a century ago, when the Circle of Gods had decided to tidy up their new world.

  The gods are probably the only beings that know, he thought.

  You could ask them, Leiard suggested.

  He chuckled. Even if calling on them wasn’t likely to result in our death, I doubt we could trust their answer.

  He looked at Emerahl again. She hadn’t moved while he’d been watching her, except to breathe. The rise and fall of her chest was so slow he had to watch patiently to see the change.

  I’ll miss her. He frowned, surprised at the wistful emotion that came with the thought. It was not that he didn’t expect to feel this way, just that it was stronger than he had anticipated.

  You didn’t feel like this about her before? Leiard asked. Do you love her?

  Mirar considered. He felt affection and concern. He would not like her to be harmed or feel pain. He enjoyed her company, had always enjoyed her physical company the few times they had been lovers—but he was still sure he did not feel anything like romantic love. Emerahl was a friend.

  Yes. You have missed the company of an equal.

  Perhaps I have, he conceded.

  Looking away, he considered the cave. He was hungry. She had told him there was enough food to last him for the few days she would be changing. It was mostly nuts, fresh and dried fruit, some dried meat and a few tubers.

  Hardly inspiring fare, he thought. He glanced at the cave entrance, thinking of the shrimmi she had caught and cooked once before. I think it’s time I saw a little daylight. If the Siyee fly past and see me, so be it. I doubt they’ll be any danger to Emerahl. To be sure I’ll tell them she has already left. I don’t think I need to stay in here every moment of the next few days. Perhaps I can find her something decent to eat when she wakes up.

  Picking up the bucket she had used when collecting food, he started toward the tunnel and daylight.

  Erra considered the strange child curled up on the deck. She was completely hairless as far as he could see. Between the fingers and toes of her enormous hands and feet was a thick webbing. Her skin was unnaturally dark—a bluish black. It had been glossy yesterday, but now it looked dull.

  “She bring trouble,” Kanyer warned. “She child. Adults come for her. Slit our throats in our sleep.”

  “That’s what you said last night,” Erra replied. “No one came.”

  “Why you keep her?”

  “A hunch. My da used to say you can find something useful in everything that comes out of the sea.”

  “How she useful? You think sea folk trade for her?”

  “Maybe. I have another idea. Silse said he saw her taking the bells. Said she must have been there for a while.”

  Kanyer looked at the girl with interest. “It true they breathe water then.”

  Erra shook his head. “Nah. She hasn’t got gills. See the size of her chest. Big lungs. Prob’ly means she can hold her breath a long time.” He rubbed his stubbly chin. “That’d be useful to us.”

  “You want her get bells for us?”

  “Yes.”

  “She won’t.”

  “She will if we give her a reason.”

  Erra strode across to the girl and cut the ropes around her ankles. She didn’t wake up so he nudged her with his foot. Her whole body jerked as she came awake and she turned her head to stare up at him. Her lips were cracked and the film across her eyes was red. He guessed that being out of the water was doing her harm and felt a small pang of guilt. Well, she shouldn’t have tried to steal my bells.

  He reached over to the lamp ring and untied the end of the rope that tethered her.

  “Get up.”

  She moved slowly, her expression wary and sullen.

  “Come over here.”

  He tugged her to the baskets of sea bells and waved to the last empty one. He indicated the level of the full one next to it, then held his hand over the empty basket at the same place. She watched him intently. He pointed at her, then at the sea, then indicated the full level of the empty basket again. Finally he point
ed to the ropes and made a cutting motion, then pointed to her and then waved out at the sea.

  She glared at him, obviously understanding but not liking what he was proposing. Nevertheless, she did not resist as he tugged her over to the side of the boat. The crew watched, still chewing on their morning meal.

  He turned her around and untied the rope binding her wrists. Then he tied a long length of new, dry rope around her neck. It would swell when it got wet, and be impossible to untie. He nudged her and pointed at the water.

  She stared at him resentfully for a moment, then jumped into the water. At once she began struggling with the rope.

  “Silse,” Erra called.

  The swimmer strolled over.

  “Get in the water and keep an eye on her. If it looks like she’s going to get free, let me know. We’ll haul her back out.”

  The man hesitated. Using the girl like this probably pricked the fool’s conscience. Or was he worried about losing his share of the profits?

  “What are you waiting for?” Erra growled.

  Silse shrugged, then jumped into the water. The girl’s struggles stopped. She looked at Silse floating nearby. After staring at him for a long time, she suddenly dove into the gloom, the rope running into the water after her.

  Silse watched her. After a moment he raised his head out of the water.

  “She’s doing it, but she’s cutting them one by one.”

  “Let her,” one of the other crewmen said. “It’ll save us some work.”

  Erra nodded. There’d be less trouble later, when it came to dividing the profits, if the others couldn’t claim Silse had done less work than them. He pointed to one of the bags the swimmers had used to haul up the sea-bell plants.

  “Give me that.”