The Last of the Wilds

the service of the gods. Our losses are also yours, as are our victories. For though we did not win this battle, we lost by the slightest of margins. So well matched were the armies of the Pentadrians and the Circlians that only chance could decide the winner. This time, the wind of change blew in their favor. Next time it could as easily blow in our direction.”

She had lifted her arms, clenching her fists. “We know we are as mighty as they. We will soon be mightier!”

The crowd, knowing its role, had cheered, but the sound was lacking in enthusiasm.

“We have spread the names of Sheyr, Hrun, Alor, Ranah and Sruul throughout the world! The names of the true gods. The enemies of the Circlians will come here, to us. They will come to Glymma. Where will they come?”

“Glymma!” the citizens yelled half-heartedly.

“Those who wish to follow the true gods will come here. Where will they come?”

“Glymma!” The voices were louder.

“Where will they come?”

“Glymma!” Now there was some force behind the reply.

Imenja had lowered her arms. “We have lost much. We have lost fathers and sons. We have lost husbands and wives. We have lost mothers and daughters, sisters and brothers, friends and companions, mentors and leaders. We have lost our leader, First Voice Kuar.”

She bowed her head. “His voice is silent. Let us now be silent in acknowledgment of all those who have died for the gods.”

There had been a lump in Reivan’s throat. Imenja’s face had been lined with grief, and Reivan knew that this grief was real. She had seen it in Imenja’s eyes and heard it in the woman’s voice many times in the last month.

The silence had stretched out unbearably. Then, finally, Imenja had raised her head and thanked the crowd. She had told them a new First Voice would be elected after a month of mourning. The Voices and Servants had entered the Temple, the soldiers left and the crowd dispersed. Reivan had returned to the small room she rented at the edge of the city. Imenja had given her a day to settle her affairs before coming to the Sanctuary to begin her training as a Servant.

And so I am here, she thought as she turned to walk through one of the arches.

The large hall inside was also unusually quiet. Only a few Servants were present, standing in little circles of three or four. Their black-robed backs seemed to forbid interruption. She stopped and waited. Servants were supposed to greet all visitors on arrival, whether they were from the highest or lowest part of society.

None of the Servants approached her, though in the corner of her eye she noted that one or two were watching her whenever she wasn’t looking in their direction. As time passed, she felt her confidence draining away. Have I come at the wrong time? Imenja said to come here today. Should I approach the Servants? Would that be breaking protocol, or something?

Finally one of the men stepped away from his companions and strolled toward her.

“Visitors do not come here during times of mourning,” he told her. “Unless the matter is urgent and important. Is there something you need from us?”

“Ah.” She managed an apologetic smile. “I did not know. However, I was told to come here this morning by the Second Voice.”

“For what purpose?”

“To begin my training as a Servant.”

His eyebrows rose. “I see.” He pointed across the hall. Another wall of arches ran parallel to the entrance of the hall. “Cross the courtyard and enter the corridor. The Servant-novice quarters are to the right.”

She nodded and thanked him, then walked out of the hall. The courtyard beyond was large and was dominated by a star-shaped fountain in the center. She walked around it to a wide opening in the building on the other side. This corridor sloped upward, the climb up the hill assisted by an occasional step or two. Servants were walking up and down. Before she had taken more than a few steps a middle-aged woman stopped her, face tight with suspicion.

“Where are you going?” she asked sternly.

“The Servant-novice quarters. I am here to begin my training.”

The woman’s eyebrows rose. “Name?”

“Reivan Reedcutter.”

Somehow the eyebrows managed to rise higher. “I see. Follow me.”

The Servant led her to a door on the left side of the corridor. Reivan paused, then shrugged and followed the woman in. They strode down a long, narrow passage, passing many doors. Finally the woman stopped at one and knocked.

The door opened. Inside a Dedicated Servant sat behind a desk. The woman looked up and, as she saw Reivan, frowned. A hand clasped Reivan’s shoulder and pushed her inside.

“Reivan Reedcutter.” The voice of her guide was heavy with disapproval. “Come to serve the gods.”

Looking over her shoulder, Reivan glimpsed the Servant’s expression, full of dislike, before the door closed. She turned back to face the Dedicated Servant and caught dismay, quickly smothered.

“So you came,” the woman said. “Why do you think you can become a Servant when you have no Skills?”

Reivan blinked at the question. Very direct, she mused. I gather “because Imenja said I could” won’t be convincing this woman.

“I hope to serve the gods in other ways,” she replied.

The woman nodded slowly. “Then you must prove that is possible. I am Dedicated Servant Drevva, Mistress of Training.” She rose and moved around the desk. “You will undertake the same training and tests that every other hopeful entrant takes. You will also live in the same accommodations. Come with me.”

She led Reivan out of the room and farther down the passage. After a few turns the passages became even narrower. Finally she stopped outside a door and opened it.

Looking inside, Reivan felt her heart sink. The room was barely larger than the bed it contained. It smelled of dust and rot. Sand and dust lay in drifts on the floor.

“Do you allow your Servant-novices to live in such conditions?” she found herself asking. “The Servants that raised me would have had me whipped for such neglect.”

“If it does not suit you, find a domestic to clean it,” Drevva said. She turned on her heel and walked away, then paused and looked back. “Come to my room at the morning bell tomorrow and I will arrange for a Servant to begin your tests.” Her eyes dropped to Reivan’s bag. “What is that?”

“My belongings.”

“Which are?”

Reivan shrugged. “Clothes, instruments, books...” She thought of the books she had sold the previous day and felt a pang of loss. She had doubted the Sanctuary would appreciate her bringing a small library with her.

Drevva strode back and took the bag from Reivan. “Servants do not keep personal belongings. You will have all you need here at the Sanctuary. Clothing will be provided, and if you succeed in becoming a Servant-novice you will need no more than the robes.”

“But—”

The woman silenced her with a stare. “But what?”

“But what if I fail the tests?” Reivan asked.

A tiny smile pulled at the woman’s lips. “I will keep your bag in my room. It will be returned to you when you leave.”

When you leave. Reivan watched the woman stride away, then sighed and went in search of a domestic. Her search took her a long way from her room, and she only realized she had reached the Servants’ rooms when she finally found a domestic sweeping a corridor.

“I need someone to clean my room,” she told him.

He gave her a sullen look. “All the domestics are busy cleaning out rooms of dead Servants,” he told her, then turned his back.