The Last of the Wilds

do if Leiard was still there in his mind? What could he do?

:Good night, Emerahl sent sleepily.

:Good night, he replied.

Their dream link broke. Alone, Mirar let himself drift into dreams and memories. Not all of them pleasant, but most of them filled with truths he had not known for a century.

10

Emerahl rose early and went in search of food. As she dug for edible roots and plucked fruit and nuts from trees she considered the revelations of the night before. What Mirar had done was extraordinary. She wanted to know how he had survived in his broken body as much as she wanted to learn how he had created Leiard and buried his own sense of identity. Was Leiard still in his mind? Could he temporarily slip into a Leiard state again if he knew the gods were watching? That might come in handy.

He was in a meditative pose when she returned. It was so uncharacteristic for him she felt a sinking dismay, sure that Leiard had taken control. As she put down her bucket one of his eyes opened and his lips twitched into a sly smile.

“What’s for breakfast?”

That’s definitely Mirar, she thought, relieved.

“Rootcakes. Fruit and nuts,” she replied. “Again.”

Unimpressed, he closed his eye again, leaving her feeling dismissed. He was shielding his mind well, too. She could not even guess at his mood.

Her stomach rumbled. She peeled the roots, chopped them finely and boiled them until they were soft. Straining them, she mashed them into a paste and began to shape them into flat circles.

“I remembered much last night,” he said. “After you went to sleep.”

She straightened to regard him. His eyes opened. He looked like a stranger, his face tight with emotions she had never seen him wear. Once again she wondered if she was talking to Leiard.

“Like what?”

His gaze dropped to the floor, but his eyes were focused beyond it. On memories, she guessed. Bad memories from the look on his face.

“Confusion. After I was found in the rubble I woke as if from a sleep. I didn’t know who I was and nobody else did either. They didn’t recognize me and assumed I was one of the ordinary Dreamweavers who had been caught in the collapse of the House. My body was twisted and misshapen. I couldn’t walk. I couldn’t feed myself. I was so ugly they hid me away so I didn’t frighten women and young children.”

He spoke softly, with no anger, but with a quiet horror. She shivered, appalled that her old friend had suffered so. Appalled that the great Mirar had been reduced to a cripple with no memory.

“I healed so slowly,” he continued. “My hair fell out and grew back white. I couldn’t cut it, and by the time I was able to I couldn’t remember why I should want to. As soon as I was able to get my legs to move well enough to carry me, I fled Jarime. I was frightened of the city, but couldn’t remember why. So I hobbled from town to town, village to village, travelling further and further away. Begging, scavenging, treated with charity in one place and driven away from others. The way I existed was pathetic, and it went on for years and years and years.”

He sighed. “But still I grew stronger. My scars dwindled away. While some memories faded, others returned. I remembered that I was a Dreamweaver, but it was a long time before I dared to make myself a vest or offer my services. I stayed longer in each place, years instead of months. The longest I stayed was for more than a decade, and that was after...” He paused, then grimaced. “After I found a child with so much potential I could not help but stay and teach her.”

“Auraya,” Emerahl ventured.

He nodded. “She would have made a fine Dreamweaver.”

Emerahl felt a mild surprise. “You think so?”

“Yes. She is intelligent. Compassionate. Gifted. All the right characteristics.”

“Except for a certain preference for the gods.”

He smiled ruefully. “Yes. Except for that. Once again, they ruined my plans. Or Leiard’s, anyway.” He frowned. “The Tower in the dream is the White Tower. It didn’t exist then, but it was built where the Dreamweaver House stood. I think seeing that prompted my memories to return.”

Emerahl leaned forward. “So, is Leiard still there?”

“I don’t know.” Mirar looked up at her, his expression unreadable. “I guess it is time to find out.”

She nodded. “I guess it is.” She paused, watching him closely. “Should I summon him?”

“May as well get it over with.”

She drew in a deep breath.

“Leiard. Speak to me.”

His eyes widened and his face contorted. Emerahl watched in horror and dismay as all signs of Mirar disappeared to be replaced by a mask of terror. His mouth opened, he sucked in a great lungful of air, then he covered his face and a tortured sound poured out - a thin cry of anguish and fear.

Obviously Leiard’s not gone, she thought dryly.

He was rising to his feet. She rose hastily and moved closer.

“Leiard. Calm down.”

The sound he was making faded to silence. His hands shifted to the sides of his head, as if he wanted to crush it.

“A lie,” he gasped. “A lie - and she doesn’t know! She doesn’t know what she loved was...” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m not real.”

Suddenly his eyes were open and staring at Emerahl. He took two steps toward her and gripped her shoulders. “But I am! If I wasn’t, how is it possible that I can think? And feel? How can I not be real?”

Emerahl stared back at him. He looked half mad, half desperate. She felt a pang of sympathy. “He made you too well,” she found herself saying.

He released her in one shove of rejection. She stumbled backward and one heel struck the bed. It hurt and she let out an involuntary gasp. Leiard did not notice, however.

“Why did he make me capable of love?” he railed. “How could he even do so, when he is incapable of it himself?” He paused, then spun about to stare at her accusingly. “Was this what he planned, then? Create another person, then kill him? He might as well sire a child, then murder it.”

He has a point, she thought.

Then she shook her head. Leiard was not a real person. He had not been born. He had not grown up among a family. He had not formed this personality over time, it had been created. It made sense that Mirar would give his disguise a sense of self, or it would have no sense of self-preservation.

Suddenly he turned from her and began striding toward the cave entrance. Her heart stopped.

“Leiard!” she shouted. “Don’t leave the protection of...” He kept walking. “... curse it. Mirar! Come back!”

He stopped. She watched as his shoulders straightened. He turned to regard her, his expression serious. It was impossible to tell if her summons had worked. To her relief, he walked back into the center of the room.

“That wasn’t pleasant,” he muttered as he sat down on the end of his bed.

“Mirar?” she asked tentatively.

“Yes, it’s me,” he confirmed. He stretched out on the bed, scowling. “So. What shall we try next, Old Hag?”

She snorted at his use of the name. The Old Hag. Provider of cures for ills or bad circumstances.

“Time,” she prescribed. “I need to think. So do you.” She stood up. “Can I trust you to stay put?”

“You can trust me,” he said. “I won’t be voluntarily handing the reins over to him again.”

“Good,” she told him. “Because I can’t stay to watch you. We have to eat, and sleep. It’ll become unpleasant