The Last of the Wilds

Mirar laughed bitterly. “I got on their bad side. I provoked them. I tried to stop them deceiving people and taking control by spreading the truth about them. But you and the others...” He shook his head. “You did nothing. Nothing except be powerful. For that they’ve called us ‘Wilds’ and had their minions kill us.”

She shrugged. “The gods have always kept us in check. You can still heal others without attracting attention.”

He wasn’t listening. “It’s like being locked up in a box. I want to get out and stretch!”

“If you do, kindly do it somewhere away from me. I still like being alive.” She looked up. “Are you sure the Siyee won’t see our fire?”

“They won’t,” he told her. “It’s not safe flying in these close parts of the mountains on moonless nights. Their eyesight is good, but not that good.”

She readjusted the speared breem on its supports over the fire. Sitting back, she looked at Mirar. He was leaning back against a tree trunk. The yellow light of the fire enhanced the angle of his jaw and brows and turned his blue eyes a pale shade of green.

As he turned to meet her gaze, she felt a thrill of mingled pain and joy. She had never thought to see him again, and here he was, alive and...

... not quite himself. She looked away, thinking of the times she had tried to question him. He could not tell her how it was that he was alive. He had no memory of the event that was supposed to have killed him, though he had heard of it. This made the claims of the other identity - Leiard - more believable. Leiard believed that he carried an approximation of Mirar’s personality in his mind, formed out of the large number of link memories of the dead Dreamweaver leader that he had received during mind links with other Dreamweavers.

But this is Mirar’s body, she thought. Oh, he’s a lot thinner and his white hair makes him look a lot older, but his eyes are the same.

Mirar believed his body was his own, but could not explain why this was so. Leiard, on the other hand, thought it merely coincidence that he looked similar to Mirar. When Leiard was in control he moved in a completely different way than Mirar did, and Emerahl wondered how she had managed to recognize him at all. It was only when Mirar regained control that she was sure the body was his.

So she had asked Leiard about the link memories. If what he said was true, how had this come about? How had he gained so many of Mirar’s link memories? Could it be possible that Leiard, or someone Leiard had linked with, had collected Mirar’s link memories from many, many Dreamweavers?

Leiard could not remember who he had picked up the memories from. In fact, his memory was proving to be as unreliable as Mirar’s. It was as though they both had half a past each, but neither half filled the gaps in the other.

She had asked them both about the tower dream she had been having for months, which she suspected was about Mirar’s death. Neither had recognized it, though it appeared to make Mirar uncomfortable.

It was frustrating. She wasn’t sure what Mirar wanted from her. When she had found him on the battlefield he had been healing the wounded, just like all the other Dreamweavers, but obviously that disguise wasn’t enough or he wouldn’t have asked her to take him away. He hadn’t said where she should take him, however. He had left that choice to her.

Knowing how good he was at getting into trouble with the gods, she took him toward the safest, most remote place she knew of. Soon she had discovered Leiard. He seemed to have accepted her company only because he had no choice in the matter. She could sense both Leiard’s and Mirar’s emotions. The realization that Mirar’s mind was open and readable had been a shock to her. Belatedly she had remembered that Mirar had never been able to hide his mind as well as she could. It was a skill that required time and the assistance of a mind-reader to learn, and, like all Gifts, it must be practiced or the mind forgot it.

That meant that the gods would see his thoughts if they happened to look his way, and through him they could see her. Mirar knew who she was.

Of course, they might not have any reason to pay attention to this half-mad Dreamweaver at all. One fact she knew about the gods was they couldn’t be in more than one place at one time. Distances could be crossed in an instant, but their attention was singular. With so much to keep them occupied, the chance they would notice Mirar was slim.

If they did, who would they believe this person was? Leiard or Mirar? Mirar had told her something about the gods that she hadn’t known before. They did not see the physical world except through the eyes of mortals. After a hundred years there were no mortals alive who had met Mirar before, so none would recognize him. Even those Dreamweavers with link memories of Mirar from predecessors might not recognize him now. Memory of physical appearance was individual.

The only people who could recognize him now were immortals: her, other Wilds, and Juran of the White. However, the Mirar they remembered had looked much healthier than this. His hair had been blond and carefully groomed. He’d had smooth skin and more flesh on his bones. When she had commented on how changed he was, he had laughed and described himself as he had appeared two years before. He’d had long white hair and a beard and had been even skinnier than he was now.

He had said he was more concerned about being recognized as Leiard, though he didn’t say why. It appeared Leiard was as good at getting himself into trouble as Mirar had been.

Travelling was difficult and slow in the mountains of Si, but not impossible for those as Gifted as they. If they were being pursued their followers must be far behind them now.

Mirar yawned and closed his eyes. “How much longer?”

“That would be telling,” she replied. She had refused to tell him where they were going. If he knew, the gods might read his mind and send someone ahead to meet them.

His lips twitched into a smile. “I meant until the breem is cooked.”

She chuckled. “Sure you did. You’ve asked how long we have to travel every night.”

“So I have.” He smiled. “How much longer?”

“An hour,” she told him, nodding at the breem.

“Why not cook it with magic?”

“They’re nicer cooked slow, and I’m too tired to concentrate.” She looked at him critically. He looked weary. “Go to sleep. I’ll wake you when it’s ready.”

His nod was almost imperceptible. She rose and went in search of more firewood. Tomorrow they would arrive at their destination. Tomorrow they would finally be hidden from the gods’ sight.

And then?

She sighed. Then I’ll have to see if I can sort out what’s going on in that mixed-up mind of his.

2

“These are beautiful,” Teiti said, moving to the next stall. Imi looked up at the lamps. Each was a giant shell, carved with tiny holes so that the flame inside cast thousands of little pinpricks of light. They were pretty, but not precious enough for her father. Only something rare would do. She wrinkled her nose and looked away.

Teiti said no more about the lamps. Her aunt had been Imi’s guardian long enough to know that trying to persuade her something was wonderful would only convince her it wasn’t. They strolled to the next stall. It was covered in dishes brimming with powders of all colors, dried coral and seaweed, hunks of precious stones, dried or preserved sea creatures and plants from above and below the water.

“Look,” Teiti exclaimed. “Amma! It’s rare. Perfumers make wonderful scent out of it.”

The stall-holder, a fat man with oily skin, bowed to Imi. “Hello, little Princess. Has the amma caught your eye?” he asked, beaming. “It is the dried tears of the giantfish. Very rare. Would you like to smell it?”

“No.” Imi shook her head. “Father has shown me amma before.”

“Of course.” He bowed as she turned away. Teiti looked disappointed, but said nothing. As they passed