The Last of the Wilds

She would have cleaned out the room herself but it was clear from Drevva’s response that Servants considered such tasks beneath them. If the unskilled newcomer behaved like a domestic she would be treated like one, Reivan guessed.

The domestics continued to claim their other tasks were more urgent. Eventually she followed a child domestic to a washroom where she bullied him into cleaning out her room and replacing the bedding. She felt a bit guilty about it, but knew from her extensive reading of philosophers and famous healers that to sleep in a grimy room was to encourage sickness in the body and mind.

This took the rest of the day. By the time the child had finished it was late and she was hungry. She went in search of food. Catching the aroma of cooking, Reivan followed it to a large hall full of Servants. Only a low murmur of voices could be heard and she decided that there must be a general rule against noise. Her footsteps drew several frowns as she entered. She looked around and was relieved to see one of the tables was occupied by young women and men in plain clothes. They must be other entrants. She took an empty place. The entrants regarded her curiously but said nothing.

A domestic thumped a bowl of a thin soup in front of her. She noted, with disappointment, that only a few crumbs of bread remained in the basket in the center of the table. When she had finished eating she met the eyes of the young man beside her.

“Is there a rule against talking?”

He nodded. “Only while we’re in mourning.”

At one end of the room several Dedicated Servants sat at a long table. She examined each of them as best she could. In a month’s time, Servants from all over the world would choose one of the Dedicated Servants to be the new leader of the Pentadrians. Drevva was at the table. The woman glanced at Reivan, then looked away.

This is hardly the reception I was hoping for, Reivan thought. These Servants are so cold they make even the Thinkers seem patient, kind and friendly.

There were several empty places at the table. Reivan felt a chill as she realized why. The Dedicated Servants who had claimed those seats were probably dead, killed in the war.

Perhaps this is why everyone at the Sanctuary is so unwelcoming, she mused. Defeat and loss has made them grumpy and distracted. She could hardly expect them to be warm and cheerful toward her when they were grieving lost friends and colleagues.

A bell rang to mark the end of the meal, and Reivan followed the entrants back to their quarters.

Taking a firm grip of an outcrop of stone with his left hand, Mirar turned his attention to his legs again. Bending his left knee, he searched for a good place to wedge the toe of his right boot. He found a firm ledge and carefully shifted his weight onto it.

The constant pull of the rope around his chest eased as Emerahl played it out.

“Nearly there,” she called, her voice unexpectedly close.

He paused and looked down. His feet were almost level with her head. She smiled.

She’s so beautiful, he found himself thinking. The thought was Leiard’s, however. So was the small pang of guilt that he might find a woman other than Auraya attractive.

She is beautiful, he told Leiard. There’s nothing wrong with appreciating that.

And you don’t? Leiard asked.

I do. But I’ve known her so long that she no longer dazzles me.

You’re friends, Leiard stated.

In a way. We have become... familiar with each other. We have mutual concerns.

You were lovers once.

Briefly.

Leiard fell silent. Mirar shook his head. It was a strange situation, being with Emerahl. Like introducing two friends, one of whom he had already told everything he knew about the other. Which was a little unfair for Emerahl.

But it was nice to see her through fresh eyes.

Talking to Leiard made Mirar feel a little disorientated, however. He took a deep breath, cleared his mind, then continued his descent. Only when both feet were on the ground did he relax again.

Emerahl untied him, then let one end of the rope go and pulled on the other until it slithered down to tangle in the vegetation at her feet. She coiled it quickly and efficiently, swung it over her shoulder, then started along the bottom of the ravine. Mirar shouldered his pack and followed.

They were both familiar with climbing now. He had lost count of the number of times they had scaled walls of rock. This was typical Si territory. The mountains were steep and cracked, full of vertical slices of rock. They looked as if someone had dropped huge mounds of clay onto the world then stabbed at them repeatedly with giant knives. Even on a small scale the surface of exposed ground was fractured in this way, making walking difficult and dangerous. The bottoms of valleys and ravines were easier to traverse, as the cracks and crevasses had filled with soil over time to make a smoother floor. There they had only to navigate through the dense undergrowth of the forest.

No human had made tracks through this land. Not even the Si, who did not like to live this close to landwalker habitations. Animals occasionally did, and they had worn narrow, winding paths through the vegetation. Still, it was slow-going. He and Emerahl had been travelling for a month but had ventured only a little way into the northern part of Si. Before the Siyee had been created, this part of Ithania had been known as The Wilds.

Now that’s what Emerahl and I are classified as, according to the gods, Mirar mused. “Wilds.” I wonder if they mean to imply that we are undomesticated? Uncivilized? Barbaric, perhaps.

Maybe unrestrained, disorderly, violent, dangerous, Leiard suggested.

None are true, Mirar replied. In their day, he and Emerahl had represented great skill in magic. His Dreamweavers had provided order in a chaotic world. They were peaceful, non-violent and certainly not dangerous. Emerahl had been revered for her healing and wisdom.

There was another meaning for “wild.” It could be a random force that could upset plans in either a beneficial or disastrous way.

This, perhaps, is the true reason the gods chose that label for us, Mirar thought Upsetting the gods’ plans sounds like a worthwhile reason to exist. Trouble is, I have no idea what their plans are so how am I to upset them?

The ravine had widened. He could hear the sound of water. Lots of water. They must be nearing a river. There was a lightness to Emerahl’s steps now. He saw her emerge into sunlight ahead, turn to the left and smile.

She’s definitely pleased about something, he thought. Lengthening his stride, he caught up with her. She was standing at the edge of a drop where the ravine ended abruptly. Following her gaze, he saw what she was smiling at.

A waterfall. Two steep slopes met far above it, channelling the river to a cliff edge. Water cascaded down into a wide, deep pool before chuckling eagerly over a rocky riverbed that curved below them, then away to their right. Mist billowed up from the fall, keeping the air dense with moisture.

“How pretty,” he observed.

Emerahl gave him a sidelong look. “It is, isn’t it? Let’s find a tree to wind this rope around.”

After several minutes they had both climbed down the drop, after first lowering their packs with magic. Emerahl crossed the river by jumping from rock to rock. When she started toward the waterfall, Mirar hesitated before following. After travelling through this rough country for a month and seeing plenty of grand and attractive natural scenery, he didn’t feel any inclination to explore a waterfall. He’d rather reach their destination sooner and have a good long rest.

Emerahl moved closer and closer to the fall of water. The pounding was loud in his ears. She began to climb the smooth boulders beside the fall. He stopped to watch her. Looking back, she smiled and beckoned.

Shrugging, he followed. Scaling the boulders took all his attention. When he had reached a narrow length of flat pebbly ground he looked up and found her grinning. Then he saw what she had discovered. Behind the waterfall