The Last of the Wilds

The river dropped over a small cliff. He felt the faint touch of moisture in the air, thrown up by the waterfall. Ahead he could see another smaller fall. He flew over it, and decided he liked the look of it. If he dove off the dry rock by the edge he could become airborne again without the exhausting effort of running and flapping.

Circling around, he led the others back to the stretch of river above the fall. Landing jarred all his bones, but a moment later the pain was made worthwhile as he let his arms fall to his side and felt the ache in them ease.

“We’ll stop here for the night,” he declared.

Reet frowned. “May as well gather some food,” he said, stalking away into the forest. Tyve hurried after, muttering something about firewood. As Veece sat down on a boulder still warm from the sun, his niece, Sizzi, crouched beside him.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“A bit stiff,” he told her, rubbing his arms. “I just need to work it out a little.”

She nodded. “And what of your heart?”

He gave her a reproachful look, but she stared back unflinchingly. Sighing, he looked away.

“I feel better and I feel worse,” he told her. “No longer angry, but still... empty.”

She nodded. “It was a good thing that the Circlians did. The markers for the graves and the monument will ensure our help and our losses are never forgotten.”

“It won’t bring him back,” he reminded her, then he grimaced at his words. It was unnecessary to point that out and he sounded like a sullen child.

“It won’t bring back anyone’s sons,” she murmured. “Or daughters. Or parents. That cannot be undone. Nor should it, if it meant these Pentadrians won and came to slaughter us all.” She shook her head, then stood up. “I heard that the Circlians are sending priests to us. They will teach us healing, and help us defend ourselves with magic.”

He snorted. “No use to us, so far from the Open.”

“Not straight away,” she agreed. “If you send one of our tribe to learn from them, he or she will bring back that knowledge.”

“And you would like to b—”

“Veece! Speaker Veece!”

Reet and Tyve dashed out of the forest and hurried to his side.

“We found footprints,” one of them panted. “Big footprints.”

“Bootprints,” the other corrected.

“Must be a landwalker.”

“And they’re fresh - the prints, that is.”

“Can’t be far away.”

“Should we track him?”

They looked at Veece expectantly, their eyes shining with excitement. Ready to rush into danger, despite their experience of war. Or perhaps because of it. He could see that surviving unscathed when so many had not might give a young man a sense of invulnerability.

Then he remembered the last time a lone stranger had been encountered in Si and felt his blood turn cold.

“We should be careful,” he told them. “What if this is the black sorceress, returned with her birds to take revenge on us?”

The pair went pale.

“Then we can’t leave without finding out,” Sizzi said quietly. “All tribes will need to be warned.”

Veece considered her, surprised but impressed. She was right, though it meant they must take a terrible risk for the sake of their people. He nodded slowly.

“We best leave and return tomorrow.” He looked from Reet and Tyve to Sizzi. “In full light it will be easier to track this landwalker - or landwalkers. Hopefully we will be able to confirm whether magic has been used, or those black birds are present, without having to meet them.”

“What if one of us is seen?” Tyve asked. “What if it’s her, and she attacks?”

“We will do our best to avoid being seen,” Veece said firmly.

“Most landwalkers make so much noise they can be heard a mountain away,” Sizzi added.

Reet shrugged. “It’s probably just that explorer who brought the alliance proposal from the White last year. They say he’s a bit mad, but he’s no sorcerer.”

Veece nodded. “But we cannot gamble our lives on the chance that it is. We’ll leave now and find another place to stay tonight - far enough away that a landwalker couldn’t reach us if he or she walked all night.”

He rose and flexed his arms, then walked toward the edge of the cliff, the others following.

9

The domestic led Reivan down a long hall. One side was broken by archways and as Reivan passed the first gap she saw that they led onto a balcony that gave an impressive view over the city and beyond.

I must be close to the top of the Sanctuary, she thought anxiously.

The domestic stopped outside the last arch, turned to face her, and gestured outside. Then, without saying a word, he walked away.

Reivan paused to catch her breath - and gather her courage. She was late. The Second Voice might not want to punish her, but she might be obliged to.

“Servant-novice Reivan.” The voice was Imenja’s. “Stop worrying and come in.”

Reivan moved into the archway. Imenja was sitting on a woven reed chair, a glass of flavored water in one hand. She looked at Reivan and smiled.

“Second Voice of the Gods,” Reivan said. “I... I apologize for my late arrival. I... ah... I got...”

Imenja’s smile widened. “You got lost? You?” She chuckled. “I can’t believe that you - the one who led us out of the mines - got lost in the Sanctuary.”

Reivan looked down, but could not help smiling. “I’m afraid so. It’s quite... humiliating... I wonder if I should draw myself a map.”

Imenja laughed. “Maybe. Take a seat. Pour yourself a drink. We’ll have company soon, and I wanted some time to talk to you first. Are you settling in?”

Reivan hesitated. “More or less.”

The past few weeks flashed through Reivan’s mind as she moved to the seat next to Irnenja. Being accepted and nominated a Servant-novice hadn’t improved her in the eyes of the other Servants.

She found glasses and a jug of water on the floor. As she drank, thirsty after her long trek up staircases and along corridors, she remembered Dedicated Servant Nekaun. His words were the only truly welcoming ones she’d heard so far.

She had taken his advice and learned all she could of the internal politics within the Sanctuary - mostly by listening to other conversations. It was not difficult when everyone was discussing which of the Dedicated Servants might become First Voice.

“What do you think of Nekaun?” Imenja asked.

Reivan paused in surprise, then remembered Imenja’s mind-reading Skill. During the journey home she had gradually grown used to having her thoughts read so easily. In the time since then she must have grown unaccustomed to it again.

“Dedicated Servant Nekaun seems nice,” she replied. And nice for the eyes, too, she added.

Imenja’s mouth quirked into a crooked smile. “Yes. Ambitious, too.”

“He wants to be First Voice?” Reivan felt a spark of curiosity.

“They all do, for one reason or another. Even those who can’t admit it to themselves. Even those who are afraid of it.” Imenja took a sip of water, then nodded.

“Afraid of becoming the First Voice?”