The Last of the Wilds

worshipped them in life. If Circlians knew as much about healing as Dreamweavers, fewer people would want to become Dreamweavers and fewer souls would be lost.

The cost was to weaken, perhaps even destroy, a people she admired. Yet, that cost didn’t seem so high now. Saving souls was more important than preserving a heathen cult. And the living would benefit, too. There were more Circlian priests and priestesses than Dreamweavers. They could save more lives.

For Juran to suggest she encourage Circlians and Dreamweavers to work together was extraordinary. He had, after all, killed Mirar at the gods’ bidding. How far would his acceptance of their skills go?

“Do you mean to limit the kind of skills these healers learn from Dreamweavers?” she asked. “What of the whole range of mind-healing skills - of mind links and dream links?”

Juran frowned, obviously not comfortable with the idea. “Begin with the practical, physical information. If these dream-related skills prove themselves useful, we will consider taking them on.”

She nodded. “I will begin making the arrangements tomorrow.”

Juran looked at her, his expression thoughtful, then straightened and drew in a deep breath.

“Are there any other matters to discuss?”

A long pause followed. The four White shook their heads.

“Then that is all for today,” Juran finished.

“So you decided not to call the gods?” Dyara asked.

Juran shook his head. “If they had discovered that the Pentadrian gods were real, they would have appeared and told us.”

Mairae shrugged and stood up. The five walls of the Altar began to fold down. She smiled. “If they wanted to talk to us, the walls would stay closed.”

As the White rose and left the altar, Auraya concentrated on the magic around her. There was no sign of the gods - nothing that she could sense, anyway. All she could sense was a stirring of magic where the walls met the floor of the altar.

“Auraya,” Dyara said.

She looked at the older White. “Yes?”

“Are you planning to learn to ride?”

“Ride?” Auraya repeated, surprised. She thought of the Bearers - the large white reyner the other White rode. Her few attempts to ride ordinary reyner in the past had been uncomfortable and embarrassing, and she couldn’t imagine riding the Bearers would be any easier. “Well... no. I don’t need to.”

Dyara nodded. “That’s true. However, we had a Bearer bred for you so I can only assume the gods intended you to ride one, despite your ability to fly.”

“It’s possible they chose me long after the Bearer was bred,” Auraya said slowly. “Before they knew they’d be choosing someone who didn’t know how to ride. That may be the reason they gave me the ability to fly.”

Dyara looked thoughtful. “To compensate?”

“Yes.”

They heard a laugh from Mairae. “I think they might have over-compensated a little.”

Juran chuckled and smiled at Auraya. “Just a bit, but for that we are immensely grateful.”

3

At this time of year, in the dry and windy weather, objects in the distance looked ghostly - if they could be seen at all. As Reivan reached the Parade, the Sanctuary at its end came into full view. Her stomach twisted and she stopped, setting down her heavy bag with a sigh of relief.

The great complex of buildings covered the face of a hill at the edge of the city of Glymma. First there was a wide staircase leading up to a facade of arches belonging to a huge hall. Rising up behind this building were the faces of other structures, each a little more hazed by the dusty air. Whether they were joined together or separate buildings was hard to tell. From the front the Sanctuary was a convoluted mix of walls, windows, balconies and towers.

At the farthest point a flame burned, dimmed by the dusty air. This was the Sanctuary flame, lit by the mortal the gods had first spoken to a hundred years before. It had burned day and night since that day, maintained by the most loyal of Servants.

How can I presume to think I deserve a place among them? she asked herself.

Because Imenja does, she answered. The night after the army had emerged from the mines, Imenja had called Reivan to her during a meeting of the Voices and their counsellors to discuss the journey ahead. Reivan had waited for Imenja to give her an order, or ask a question, but neither came. It was only after the meeting, while lying sleepless and puzzled under the night sky, that she had realized Imenja had simply wanted her there to observe.

Throughout the rest of the journey Imenja had made sure Reivan was always close by. Sometimes she sought Reivan’s opinion, other times she appeared to want only conversation. During the latter moments it was easy for Reivan to forget she was speaking to one of the gods’ Voices. When Imenja put aside her demeanor of stern, powerful leader, she revealed a dry sense of humor and a compassion for other people that Reivan found appealing.

I like her, Reivan thought. She respects me. I’ve been putting up with the Thinkers’ derision for years. They’ve given me the most boring and menial of the jobs that came our way, afraid that a mere woman would prove to be their equal. They probably think keeping me poor will force me to marry someone, have children and stop being a nuisance to them. I’m sure Grauer sent me off to map the mines just to get me out of his sight.

Now the former leader of the Thinkers was dead. Hitte, his replacement, hadn’t spoken a word to her since she had led the army out of the mines. She wasn’t sure if he was peeved at her for upstaging him by finding a way out or because he’d found out about Imenja’s promise to make her a Servant of the Gods.

Probably both, she thought wryly. He can stew all he likes. So can the rest of them. If they’d treated me better, as if I was worth listening to, I would have told them of the wind tunnel, not Imenja. We would have led the army out as a team, and they’d all have had credit for saving the day. She smiled. Imenja would have seen the truth anyway. She knows I saved the army. She knows I’m worthy of serving the gods.

Shifting her bag to her other hand, Reivan started toward the Sanctuary. Climbing the steps, she stopped to catch her breath beside one of the arches. The Parade was unusually quiet for this time of the day.

She guessed that Glymma’s citizens were at home, grieving for those who hadn’t returned. Memories of the army’s arrival in the city the previous day replayed in her mind. A crowd had gathered, but only a few subdued cheers had greeted them.

The army had been far smaller than the one that had set off to war months before. While the battle had claimed most, many slaves, soldiers and Servants had died of thirst and exhaustion during the return across the Sennon desert. Merchant caravans that had traded food and water before had been conspicuously absent. The guides that the Sennon ambassador had sent for the first crossing did not return, and only the Thinkers’ maps, thankfully not among those lost with Grauer, had led them to water.

She had wondered if the people greeting the army would grow angry at the Voices for leading their loved ones to war, and at the gods for allowing them to be defeated. Any anger they felt must have been tempered by the sight of the casket the four Voices had carried between them, supported by magic. They, too, had suffered a loss.

Looking around, Reivan pictured how the homecoming must have looked from here. The army had been arranged into formation: the highest rank - the Dedicated Servants of the Gods - in front, ordinary Servants behind, then soldiers lined up in units. Slaves were moved to one side and the Thinkers had stood at the base of the stairs. The Voices had addressed the crowd from a place close to where she was standing now.

She remembered Imenja’s speech.

“Thank you, people of Glymma, for your warm welcome. We have travelled far, and fought a great battle in