:Except to tell them to invade Northern Ithania?
:The Twins believe that was the decision of the former leader, Kuar.
:Interesting. I like the idea of non-meddling gods, but if the result is mortals making decisions like that…
:Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind and think we’re better off with gods than without.
:No. Never. But mortals can make astoundingly stupid and cruel decisions, too.
:Even your own followers? she asked.
:Of course not. Dreamweavers are always unfailingly sensible.
:Ha!
:Well, most of them.
:Have you contacted Dreamweaver Elder Arleej?
:Yes, he said. She’s making the arrangements you suggested.
:How did she take the news about you?
:She was surprised.
:I’m sure she was more than just surprised. The Twins told me something you’ll find interesting and maybe even useful in the future. There are more voids in the world. Most are of no use to anyone, but there are a few in remote locations that might be good places for you to hide.
:Do they know what caused them?
:No. Only that a great magical event must have happened to drain that much magic from one place in the world. They had never heard of them before the War of the Gods.
:That certainly qualifies as a great magical event, Mirar remarked.
:Yes. I’d always thought it strange that a war between such beings has never affected the physical world. All that changed for mortals was that gods no longer appeared, or they lost Gifts their gods had bestowed upon them.
:I wonder if the voids are dangerous to the gods. They are beings of pure magic, after all.
:Only if they blundered into one, I suppose.
:Yes. I wonder if we could arrange that.
Emerahl’s amusement came to him in a gentle wave of humor.
:It’s gone quiet, she said suddenly.
Mirar paused and listened. It took a moment for the meaning of the silence to occur to him. The sound of wind had stopped. Either his subconscious had finally blocked it, or the storm had ended.
:I had best wake up and be civil to my hosts, Emerahl told him. Happy travelling, Mirar.
:Thanks, he replied, thinking of the treacherous snow and rugged mountains he still had to cross.
Her mind faded from his senses. He drew in a deep breath and pulled himself into full consciousness. To his relief the wind had stopped screaming. Opening his eyes he saw only darkness, so he drew magic and created a spark of light. His relief changed to dismay.
The entire mouth of the enormous cave he had been sheltering in was completely blocked by a wall of snow.
That was why he couldn’t hear the wind any more.
47
A day after the Elai had sunk the raider ship, Imenja ordered her vessel to moor near a collection of little islets. Though more rock than anything else, those just beneath the waves were covered in bulfish. The islets were too far from Borra for the Elai to be relying on them for food, and too dangerous for anyone without magic to approach. Imenja had ventured out with a few daring crewmembers every day to collect bulfish, and they had feasted on the delicacy for two days.
All except Reivan. Unfortunately, she was the only person on board who didn’t like these bulfish. Some of the crew even preferred to eat them raw. Just the thought of that turned her stomach. The ship’s cook, however, had taken Reivan’s dislike as a personal challenge. Each night he prepared them in a different way, trying to find one that might win her over. Under Imenja’s watchful eye she had tasted them seared, roasted, in soups, and even mashed into a paste, but the strong, pungent, fishy taste left her gagging.
She longed for the ship to move on, but culinary pleasure wasn’t the only reason Imenja was dallying in this place. The Second Voice had to give the Elai warriors time to return to their city, give the king their news, and for a messenger to return—if the king decided to send one.
“I think I’m growing to like this life on the sea,” Imenja said. “Maybe I should put aside ruling the world and become a trader.”
Reivan turned to regard Imenja. “I suppose it wouldn’t be a great change for you. You’d still get to boss others around and negotiate with peoples of many nations. I think I prefer the simple comforts of the Sanctuary, though.”
“There’s much more room there,” Imenja agreed.
“And there’s no…oh, no. Here we go again.”
She had spotted the cook approaching the pavilion. He held a wooden board covered by an upturned dish.
Imenja chuckled. “He only seeks to please you.”
“Are you sure he’s not trying to make me ill?”
The cook entered the pavilion. He traced the star over his chest quickly, then lifted the dish off the wooden board with a flourish. Reivan sighed.
A shallow stone bowl lay on the board, filled with bulfish. Their shells had been removed and they steamed invitingly. A delicious smell of herbs reached Reivan’s nose, but it did nothing to boost her confidence.
The cook held out a fork.
“Try.”
Reivan shook her head.
“Just try it, Reivan,” Imenja said, in the tone of someone who would not be refused.
Sighing, Reivan took the fork and skewered one of the slimy-looking fish. She regarded it fatalistically, then forced herself to put it in her mouth.
The sickeningly pungent flavor she expected to assault her senses did not come. Instead, a mild flavor mixed with the pleasantness of the herbs filled her mouth. Surprised, she chewed cautiously, sure that doing so would release the flavor she disliked. It didn’t, and she swallowed almost reluctantly.
The cook was grinning. “You like it.”
She nodded. “It’s better. Much better.”
“Really?” Imenja took the fork from Reivan’s hands, then plucked a morsel off the board. She popped it into her mouth and chewed, and her eyes widened. “It is. It’s subtle and delicate. You steamed it?”
The cook nodded.
“Remember what you did,” she told him. “I wonder if we can get bulfish shipped home to—”
Her expression changed suddenly. With furrowed brows she waved the cook away, rose and stepped out of the pavilion. Reivan followed as her mistress moved to the ship’s rail and stared out at the sea.
“I think we are about to receive a visit from the sea folk,” she murmured. “Yes. There.”
She pointed. The water was all black shadows and the red light of the reflected sunset. Staring out at the waves, Reivan saw a head-sized object moving up and down with the waves. After a moment it disappeared. She sought another sign of the Elai, but in vain.
“Throw over a rope,” Imenja ordered a crewman nearby. He hurried to obey. As the rope unfurled, Reivan peered over the rail.
A head appeared and two milky eyes stared up at them. The inner eyelids of the Elai warrior slid back. He grasped the rope and began to climb.
When he reached the rail, he paused and looked at the crew nervously. He was older than the Elai warriors who had sunk the raider ship. As Imenja stepped forward to welcome him, he turned to regard her, his expression serious.
“I have come to give you a message,” he told her. “King Ais, ruler of Borra and the Elai, invites Second Voice Imenja, Servant of the Pentadrian gods, to consider this proposal.”
He spoke slowly and carefully, and had obviously memorized the message from the king. Reivan smothered the urge to smile in triumph as she realized this was a treaty proposal.
“The king suggests his people and yours meet to trade goods in the future, but not at the islands of Borra. Islands a few days’ sailing from Borra might be suitable, if they are not overrun by raiders.
“In return for help with Elai defenses, King Ais will help Pentadrians fight raiders, but only if the risk to his warriors is not too great. All valuables taken from raider vessels would become the property of the king. Training of Elai in fightin
g, magic or building defenses would also occur away from Borra.”
Imenja nodded. “Am I right to guess that the signing of such a treaty will occur on one of these remote islands as well?”
The messenger nodded. Imenja looked away as if considering.
:What do you think, Reivan?
:I think this is the only offer we’ll get. There will be no discussion of these terms. If we attempt it, we will not hear from him again.
:And what of the terms?
:The only part that sounds unreasonable is that they get all the loot. It would not take long for it to occur to them that if they wait until a trader has been attacked, they will get more loot from the raider.
Imenja turned back to the messenger.
“I agree to these terms on behalf of my people. If you tell me the location of the islands you spoke of, we will sail for them tomorrow.”
The messenger looked surprised, but not displeased. He gave her directions, then, bowing respectfully, he bid them farewell and moved to the edge of the ship. Unlike the younger warriors, who had leapt into the water, he climbed down carefully and slipped into the sea with barely a splash.
Imenja beckoned to Reivan, who moved to her side.
“You still fear they’ll replace raiders as the greatest danger for traders in these waters,” she said quietly. “Don’t worry. I will make them think twice about that.”
A warm weight lay between Auraya’s shoulders. After long hours of flight, Mischief had grown bored, yet he understood, perhaps instinctively, that he could not leave the protection of her pack. Instead he did something she envied him for: sleep.
The night landscape below was coy about revealing its features. Different shades of darkness marked different areas: forest was darker than fields, water was blacker still. From time to time the moon found a gap in the clouds and Auraya was able to make out roads and houses.
Now there was an aberration below. An interruption of the natural pattern, poised at the meeting of land and water. As moonlight once again bathed the world it showed hard angles and a jumble of interconnecting lines. Two buildings caught the light and seemed to throw it back. The Dome shone like a second moon, half-buried in the ground. The White Tower stretched up, like an accusing finger.
Moving toward the Tower, she considered once again the reception she might receive. Would all four White meet her? Would they be sympathetic or angry? Would she be expected to apologize or explain herself? As she descended she braced herself for a meeting that was probably going to be awkward, if not unpleasant.
As her feet touched the roof her surroundings darkened. She looked up to see that the clouds had covered the moon again. No one stepped out to greet her. She waited for several heartbeats, then laughed quietly.
I assumed the gods would let Juran know I was coming. Looks like they didn’t. She moved toward the door, amused to feel a faint disappointment. They might be waiting inside, or in my room.
She entered the building, opening and closing the door to the roof quietly. Moving down the stairs, she did not meet anyone—not even a servant. Reaching the door to her rooms, she paused to listen. No sounds came from within. She opened the door and found her rooms dim and empty.
Putting her pack down, she created a spark of light. A sleepy Mischief crawled out. He blinked at her then jumped onto a chair and curled up. She patted him, then looked around.
Everything was how she had left it, yet it did not feel like the place she had left. She felt no lifting of her spirits at familiar surrounds. Walking from room to room, she wondered if her lack of relief at returning home was because it was going to be something like a prison for the next decade.
She sat down on the edge of her bed and twirled the ring on her finger.
During her long flight, with nothing to distract her, she had spent a lot of time thinking. At first she had decided there was no point agonizing over her future. It was set and there was nothing she could do to change it. But something nagged at her and eventually she had admitted to herself that she did have choices, even if they were foolish or ridiculous. She began examining them, weighing up the consequences, in order to convince herself they were not ones she wanted to make.
By the time she had reached Jarime she had come to the realization that some of these choices weren’t as foolish as she’d first thought. That she might be happier, or at least more useful to the world, if she made them.
At the same time they frightened her. She had decided she needed to sleep before making any decision. And there was something else she needed to know.
Lying back on the bed, she let herself sink toward sleep. When she judged the time was right, she spoke a name.
:Mirar!
There was a long silence, then a familiar mental voice replied.
:Auraya? Is that really you?
:It is. I have a question for you.
:Yes?
:Will I be able to teach your healing Gift to others?
:Only in rare circumstances.
:What circumstances?
He did not answer.
:Mirar?
:Have the gods chosen a punishment for you yet? he asked.
:Yes.
:What did they decide?
She hesitated. If he had any intention of causing trouble, knowing she couldn’t leave Jarime might encourage him.
:That is none of your business, she told him.
:Isn’t it? Consider it an exchange of information. I will tell you the circumstances which limit the teaching of healing for the gods’ decision on your punishment.
She felt annoyance, but pushed it aside. She could give him part of the truth.
:They sent me back to Jarime.
:Ah. So the Siyee are without a healer, which explains your question about teaching. They’ve punished you by punishing the Siyee. I guess they didn’t have much else they could take from you.
:You did not expect them to remove my ability to fly?
:No. I’ve suspected that ability is your own since the day I taught you healing. Now I am sure of it.
A shiver ran down her spine.
:What do you mean?
:You were already a powerful sorceress when you joined the Circlians. I saw the potential in you long before that. Doesn’t it seem odd to you that the other White were not given this ability?
:Yes, but they weren’t meant to go to Si.
:Weren’t they? You discovered your ability yourself. If the gods meant you to have it in order to befriend the Siyee, wouldn’t they have given it to you in a ceremony, with great fanfare, so that people adored them for it?
:But if Juran is more Gifted than me then surely he could learn it.
:Did you try to teach him?
She paused. Juran’s efforts had come to nothing.
:But that would make me more Gifted—stronger—than him!
:Not if the gods are holding you back. They put you in third place, but since you started showing signs of growing beyond the limits of your position they’ve had to suppress you.
:How do you know this! she demanded.
:I don’t. I am guessing. But I do know that you are stronger than you think. Stronger than the gods intended you to be. I felt it the day you tried to kill me.
Auraya felt a stab of frustration.
:You haven’t answered my question: What circumstances will stop me teaching others your healing Gift?
He paused before answering.
:Only powerfully Gifted sorcerers will be able to learn it. Perhaps your fellow White can, perhaps not.
She felt her heart sink. There would be no priests or Siyee returning to fight Hearteater.
:What other circumstances are there?
:Did I say there were more?
:You spoke in plurals.
:So I did. There is this: if you did manage to find someone Gifted enough to learn my healing method, the gods may have them killed. Remember that Huan said it was forbidden.
:Why?
:That I canno
t tell you.
:Cannot or will not?
:Will not.
:Why not?
:I can’t tell you that either.
She felt her frustration growing and took a deep breath.
:So why don’t they kill me?
:You’re a White.
:So if I wasn’t, they’d kill me?
:Yes. Or maybe not. It depends if you’re speaking of yourself before you were a White or not. If before, then yes.
:And if I were a former White, no?
:I’m not sure. Are you thinking of quitting?
She paused, knowing he would sense the lie if she denied it.
:Because if you are, he continued, the gods might be so angry that they’ll kill you anyway. Not that they’d find it easy to kill someone so powerful. You might escape them. But I know what it’s like to be hunted and despised by the gods. You don’t want that life, Auraya.
:No, she said. I have no intention of making myself an enemy of the gods. Thank you for answering my question, Mirar, even if not fully.
:I answered it as fully as you answered mine, he replied. Good luck.
As he broke the link she sighed. He is too shrewd. But shrewd or not, he doesn’t know everything.
He also knew much that she didn’t. She had learned a few things from their conversation, though she had to consider if his claims were true. It was unlikely she would get much sleep before morning.
Yet by the time Mischief leapt softly onto the bed and curled up beside her, she had made the journey from waking to slumber.
Stepping into her sleeping pool, Imi splashed her body. She sighed with relief as the cool water soothed her skin.
How does father do it? He listened as that merchant droned on for hours and hours, and all the weaver woman did was whine and complain.
When Imi had asked her father if she could sit with him as he dealt with the requests, protests and reports people brought to him, he had agreed, but only if she stayed there as long as he did. She soon discovered that he spent many more hours there every day than she had expected, and that most of the time it was utterly boring.