The Last of the Wilds

The Second Voice chuckled. “Yes. In the meantime, it may be useful for you to know how ordinary priests and priestesses live.”

And now I know how the Voices live, Reivan thought as she looked around the room again. What is this room telling me about them? That they are powerful and wealthy, but in a dignified rather than excessive manner. I guess they need to impress any rulers that come here, and reassure their own people that they are in control. She looked at Imenja, remembering her previous unanswered question.

“So why don’t you become the First Voice?”

Imenja laughed. “Me?” She shook her head. “There are many reasons, but the foremost is strength. We need someone to replace Kuar who is as magically powerful, or more powerful than Kaur. That would make the new Voice more powerful than me, and it wouldn’t do to have a less powerful Voice ruling over the rest, would it?”

Reivan shook her head. “I guess not.”

“I don’t fancy the position either,” Imenja admitted. “I prefer to be less direct in my methods.” She moved to a small gong. As she struck it a pleasant ring filled the room. “Now, I need to deal with a few matters I used to leave to Thar. Stay and listen, for you will be taking on these tasks soon.”

Following the Second Voice to a set of reed chairs, Reivan resolved to learn as much as she could.

I may not have magic, but that’s not going to stop me from being a good Companion when the time comes, she told herself.

Mirar closed his eyes and slowed his breathing, letting his consciousness sink until it hovered between wakefulness and sleep. In this state it was easy to become distracted, to wander into dreams. He kept a part of his mind set on his purpose. It was like the game he had played as a child, where one had to stay in contact with a tree or a rock with one hand while trying to “kill” the other children by touching them. They’d circle around him, darting in and leaping away. He’d stretch out, just one finger touching the tree...

The tower dream, he reminded himself. I must see this dream Emerahl insists is mine.

He called out to her, and felt her stir from sleep into dream.

:Mirar?

:I am here. Show me the dream.

:Ah. Yes. The tower dream. How does it begin ...?

The White Tower appeared. It loomed over her/him, as did a sense of impending danger.

:Have you been to Jarime in the last hundred years? he asked, gently and quietly so as to avoid disturbing her recollection. Have you seen the White Tower?

:No.

That was interesting. For her to have dreamed so accurately of something she’d never seen... but then she did believe this was not her own dream.

The dream was not as accurate as it first appeared. Clouds were cut apart as they passed the top of the tower; it was higher than it truly was. He felt dream fear wash over him. The urge to flee, but also the paralysis of fascination. The dreamer wanted to watch. Wanted to see, though it was dangerous. If he stayed too long they would see the dreamer. Discover who he was.

‘They’? Who were ‘they’?

The tower seemed to flex. Cracks appeared. It was too late to run away, but still he tried. Looking back, he saw huge stone bricks falling toward him.

Why didn’t I run sooner? Why aren’t I running sideways, out of the way of the long length of the falling tower?

The world crashed around him. The noise was deafening. He felt his body covered. Crushed. Bones cracking. Flesh squashing, bursting. Chest collapsing under an enormous weight. Lungs burning as he slowly began to suffocate. No breath to cry out. Not even to give voice to the pain. He fought a numbness that was encroaching upon his mind. He tried to reach for magic, but there was none. The space around him was depleted. Despite that knowledge, he reached further, felt a trickle of it, drew it in. Used it to protect and sustain his head, his mind, his thoughts.

It isn’t enough.

Not enough magic to repair his body. Not even enough to lift the rubble of the House piled atop him. Definitely not enough to face Juran again, which he would have to do if he managed to free himself.

I could just let it go. Let myself die. Juran is right about one thing. A new age is beginning. Perhaps there is no place for me in it, as he claims.

But what of the Dreamweavers?

I am no use to them now. All I have done by resisting the gods’ plans is make Dreamweavers an enemy of the people rather than a part of this new society. Nothing lasts forever. Perhaps it is time for them to end, too. I can’t do anything for them now. If I can’t save myself, how can I save them?

He felt the little magic he had drawn dwindling, yet he reached out for more, stretching further than he had ever stretched before. If he could draw enough to sustain himself, he might survive. It was just a matter of being efficient. No need to realign bones or repair flesh. Just keep basic processes working. There was no food or water here under the rubble. He must slow his body down until it was barely alive. No need to think, just sustain the substance of his mind enough that it continued drawing magic and directing it to its purpose.

If he did not think, the gods would not see him. Would not know what he was doing. Would not know if he survived.

But they would know, once he recovered. They had only to read his mind.

Let them not see me. Let them see another. One who will never be a threat to them. I will become another until... well, for as long as I’m able... or until I die.

Slowly he let himself sink into darkness.

:Mirar!

The darkness veered away like a frightened reyner. Free from the dream, he remembered where he was and what he was doing, and the implications of the dream swamped him.

:Emerahl. You were right. I remember.

:I saw it, she replied. You are the true owner of your body. The White Tower was a symbol representing Juran striking you. It was confused with the Dreamweaver House that you were buried under. You, Mirar.

He felt awe and wonder at what he had done.

:It worked. I survived. I created Leiard in order to keep the gods from seeing me, and it worked. I walked in their Temple, lay with their priestess and they didn’t know me.

:You lost your identity, she replied, appalled. You may as well have been dead.

:But now I have regained it.

:Fortunate for you that you found a safe place to do so - and that I survived to teach you how to hide your thoughts.

:Yes, and to help me remember. Thank you, Emerahl.

:I doubt Leiard will thank me.

:Leiard? He is not a real person.

:He has become one.

:Yes, Mirar agreed reluctantly. He has had a hundred years to do so. At least he knows the truth. No wonder we were always at odds with each other. I made him opposite to me in many ways in order to strengthen my disguise.

:I wonder... Does he still exist? Should we wake up so I can try to call him forth?

:No, Mirar replied. Not yet. I have much to think about. I feel other memories coming.

:Tomorrow, then.

:Yes. Tomorrow. Mirar pushed away a rising feeling of trepidation. What would he