Standing up, she began to pace back and forth. “Yes, but if you are not, you will have memories that Leiard can’t possibly have.”
“Like what?”
She drew in a deep breath. “The tower dream. I suspect it is a memory of your death.”
“A dream of death that proves I’m alive?” He smiled crookedly. “How would that prove this is my body? It might simply be another link memory. I might have projected the experience to another, who passed it on to others, who passed it on to Leiard.”
“But neither you nor Leiard recall having this dream.”
“No.” He looked thoughtful. “Yet you believe I’m the source.”
She sat down. “The dream grew stronger the closer I came to you. We are now far from other people, yet the dream is still vivid. I only dream it when you are also asleep.”
“How could I be projecting a dream I don’t know I’m having?” he asked, though from his tone she knew he already guessed the answer. He was, after all, well versed in the ways of dreams.
“We don’t always remember our dreams,” she reminded him. “And this is a dream you may not want to remember.”
“So if I made myself remember the dream I might remember other things. Like why there is another person in my head.”
“That shouldn’t be so hard for the founder of the Dreamweavers.”
He chuckled. “I have a reputation to live up to.”
“Yes.” She held his gaze. “A reputation that hasn’t diminished over the last hundred years. If you are Mirar, the gods aren’t exactly going to be declaring a festival day to welcome you back. It’s time I started teaching you how to hide your mind. Shall we begin now?”
Nodding resignedly, he put aside his empty plate.
Dreamweaver Elder Arleej poured two glasses of ahm. She carried them to the chairs by the fire and handed one to Neeran. The old Dreamweaver accepted the drink gratefully and gulped it down.
Arleej took a sip and watched her old friend closely. He had said nothing at the news, just moved to a seat and collapsed into it. Lowering herself into the opposite chair, she set the glass aside.
“So what do you think we should do?”
Neeran pressed his hands to his face. “Me? I can’t make this sort of decision.”
“No. You can’t. Last I recall, you weren’t the leader of the Dreamweavers.”
He removed his hands and gave her a withering look. “Then why do you always follow my advice?”
She chuckled. “Because it’s always good.”
He grimaced. “I want to advise caution, but a part of me wants us to snatch up this opportunity before it turns out to be another whim of Auraya’s and she finds something else to occupy her.”
Arleej frowned. Sometimes she almost regretted telling Neeran of Leiard’s affair with Auraya of the White. It had lowered his opinion of Auraya. His disapproval reminded her to not be too enchanted by this White who favored Dreamweavers. When Neeran had declared Auraya was the source of Leiard’s downfall, he was not far from the truth.
Though where Leiard was now, Arleej could not guess. He had disappeared after the battle and she had not been able to contact him via dream links. She had been forced to take on Jayim’s training, though she hadn’t regretted it yet. The boy was proving to be an adept and charming student.
Whether Auraya was the reason for Leiard’s disappearance or not, it appeared she still wanted to encourage peace and tolerance between Circlians and Dreamweavers. This latest offer - to start a hospice in Jarime in which Dreamweavers and healer priests and priestesses worked together - was both startling and well-timed. Circlians had seen the good Dreamweavers had done for the wounded on the battlefield. The heathens had proven their worth to the healer priests and priestesses. It made sense that the best push toward peace and tolerance would be in the direction of healing.
“But what’s the catch?” Arleej said aloud.
Neeran looked at her and smiled crookedly. “The catch?”
“Yes. Will Dreamweavers decide the Circlian way of life is better and leave us to join them?”
The old man chuckled. “Or will Circlians decide they prefer our way of life, and we’ll have too many new students to teach?”
She picked up her glass, took a sip, then set it down again. “Just how closely will our people and theirs work? If they have suddenly decided that our medicines and healing methods are worthwhile, will they want to adopt them?”
“Probably. But we have never kept them a secret before.”
“No. And I doubt their interest or tolerance extends to our mind-linking skills.”
Neeran’s nose wrinkled. “There is still a law against dream-linking in most of Northern Ithania. Dreamweavers should avoid linking in any way with their patients if Circlians are observing. I doubt the White’s intention is to trick us into criminal acts so they can lock us away, but we should still exercise caution in these matters.”
“Yes,” she agreed. She turned to regard him. “It sounds as if you are advising me to agree to the offer.”
He met her eyes, then looked away. Slowly he began to nod. “Yes. But... seek the agreement of the others.”
“Very well. We will vote on it. I will dream link with leaders in other lands tonight.” She picked up her glass and handed it to Neeran. “I will need a clear mind.”
He took the glass from her, but didn’t drink. Instead he looked at her, an odd expression on his face.
“I have a terrible feeling that we face a moment of great change. Either we will miss a wonderful opportunity to prove our worth to the people of Northern Ithania or we will make ourselves redundant.”
Arleej shook her head. “Even if the Circlians surpass us in healing, even if they learn to heal through dreams and mind links, they can never be all that we are. Those that seek the truth will always come to us.”
“Yes.” He smiled and raised the glass. “Here’s to link memories.”
A week had not improved the mood of the Servants. Reivan found herself wondering several times a day if their coldness was directed only at her. Conversations ended when she drew near. When she approached a Servant with a question or request she was dealt with quickly and dismissively. Sometimes when she passed two Servants in a corridor, one would lean across to the other and murmur something.
She told herself she was simply not used to the Servants’ ways. The Servants of the monastery she had grown up in had been quiet and reserved, but she had become accustomed to more stimulating company in recent years. The Thinkers might not have respected her, but she could always engage some of them in conversation - or at least a debate. She was used to being among livelier, friendlier people, that was all.
Dedicated Servant Drevva and the other Servants who were testing her knowledge and abilities were treating her fairly, acknowledging her strengths and not making too much of her weaknesses, even her obvious lack of Skills. The other hopeful entrants to the Sanctuary were politely friendly in that way young people were to those not of the same age.
The Sanctuary baths more than made up for her cramped little room. Cleanliness was considered essential for a Servant of the Gods, and an hour’s soaking, scouring and rinsing each morning was deemed necessary for every man and woman. Feeling refreshed, Reivan dressed in the plain clothes the Sanctuary had provided her with, then stepped out of the room. As she passed a doorway she overheard a snatch of conversation from the steam- wreathed soaking room within.
“... ordain Imenja’s pet.”
“She passed the tests? I thought she was unskilled.”
“The order came from the Second Voice. I’m to allow her through so long as she passed the other
