The Last of the Wilds

still, unexpected colors formed; greens that deepened into blues then shifted into an intense dark blue that stretched overhead and became the black, star-prickled night sky.

A pretty sunset is supposed to be a sign of good weather, Emerahl mused. Better be or I’m in for another rough ride.

The storm that had raged these last few days had been the kind that could easily have wrecked ships. When it eased a little she had searched for and found the staircase. It was steep, narrow and overgrown. Descending, she had wondered if she would find someone in the cave Gherid had told her she would find. Perhaps a victim of the storm. Perhaps The Gull himself.

The cave had been empty. The storm had worsened again, but no refuge-seekers had arrived, nor The Gull. It trapped her there, but she did not mind; she was in no hurry. The cave was not luxurious even by a poor man’s standards, but it was dry. She could imagine The Gull here. She imagined she could smell him - a mix of sweat, salt water and fish - in the crude furniture made of driftwood and sailcloth.

The Gull himself. Immortal. Mysterious. A fellow Wild.

It was possible he was aware that his sanctuary had been invaded and was staying away. It was tempting to wait a little longer and see if he turned up. There was a store of dried foods in the cave and she could fish.

But she did not want to touch the stores. Gherid had told her this place was a refuge for those The Gull saved. She was no stranded shipwreck survivor so she felt she had no right to use any of the supplies here.

No, it is time I moved on, she thought. The chance that he might happen by while I was here was slim anyway. I will do as I planned: leave a message and continue on my way.

She considered the contents of her message. Not being much good at riddles, yet reluctant to write anything too specific - even in an ancient dead language - she had opted for symbolizm she hoped The Gull would understand. She had gathered up a hank of the stringy white weed called “old woman’s hair” and twisted it into a rope. Onto this she had strung a moon shell with markings in the shape of a crescent moon. Knotting the rope into a loop, she had hung it on the wall at the back of the cave.

The string was meant to tell him: “I am The Hag,” and the shell indicated the phase of the moon she would return at. Sometimes she thought it was a tad obvious. Other times she worried whether he would understand it. Or even find it.

The sky was now mostly black with a warm glow at the horizon. She crossed her arms and leaned against the side of the cave entrance.

Many things had occurred to her while she had been here. For a start, Gherid’s mind and the minds of others who had met The Gull were not shielded. Anyone able to read their minds would know The Gull still existed. That meant the gods knew he was alive. So why hadn’t they killed him?

Perhaps because he is too hard to find, she thought. They need to work through a willing human. If he can evade their human servants, he can avoid them.

Or perhaps they’ve decided he is no danger to them. They may even approve of him, since he does save the lives of Circlians and has never encouraged mortals to worship him.

She frowned. Is he any different to me, in that regard?

I heal people. I’m no real threat to the gods. I have never wished to be worshipped. Maybe I fear them for no reason. Maybe they’d let me live if they knew where I was.

If that is true, why did the priests hunt for me when they found there had been a suspiciously long-lived sorceress living in the lighthouse? Why did the gods give a priest the ability to read minds, so he could better find me?

They might not have intended to kill her, just question her.

Not likely. She snorted softly. The gods hate Immortals. They always have. Which brought her to another matter she had been considering. A question she had asked herself many times in the past.

Why do the gods hate us? They have nothing to fear from us. We can’t harm them. We might work against them, but our efforts have rarely had much effect. Could it be that they have a reason to fear us?

She shook her head. It was easy to read more into the gods’ hatred of immortals than was actually there. They kill us because they want complete control over mortals. They want their followers to go to priests and priestesses for cures, not me or Dreamweavers.

A brightness had appeared at a different stretch of the horizon. She pushed all thought of the gods aside and watched the half-moon rise. When it had floated free of the sea she looked around. It gave her enough light to sail by. She picked up her bag, gave the cave one last look, then started up the staircase to the top of the Stack.

It was narrow, and where it turned out of the light of the moon darkness blotted out all detail, forcing her to create a small light. The grassy surface of the top seemed much smaller now it was not veiled by rain. To her relief, her boat was still there. The ropes had kept it in place throughout the storm. She untied them, pulled out the pegs and dragged it to the side of the Stack. Stepping inside, she took a few deep breaths and cleared her mind.

Taking in magic from the world, she lifted the vessel into the air, out over the edge of the cliff, then slowly down to the water.

When she felt the caress of the sea on the boat’s hull she released it. At once a current began to draw her away. She watched as the Stack slowly diminished in size, thinking of the message she had left and wondering if The Gull would believe it.

And if he does, will he answer it?

Moderator Meeran of the Somreyan Council drew in a deep breath and let it out again. The meetings of the council often left him exhausted these days. He did not like this sign of his encroaching old age and always forced himself to remain and chat with those who lingered afterward.

The grand old Council building faced toward the port of Arbeem. Tall windows allowed a grand view of the city and bay. Tiny lights moved on the water, each cluster indicating the position of a ship. Two figures stood by one of the windows, talking quietly.

Meeran blinked in surprise. A white circular garment hung from the shoulders of one of the figures. The other wore humbler clothes: a leather vest on top of a plain woven tunic. Meeran narrowed his eyes. It was not often that the Dreamweaver and Circlian Elders of the Somreyan Council were seen together. Usually those two coming together resulted in the need for his hasty intervention. This time, however, they appeared to be chatting amiably.

Appearances could be deceiving, and could rapidly change. Meeran decided it would be prudent to investigate. Nobody intercepted him as he crossed the room. His suspicion that this was because others had noticed the pair at the window was confirmed when Council Elder Timbler caught his eye and smiled sympathetically.

As he neared the window Arleej turned to regard Meeran. She smiled crookedly.

“We were just discussing our new neighbors, Moderator,” she said.

He glanced out of the window and saw the object of their attention. A large ship was tied up to the docks. Its hull and sails were black. Distant figures were moving off the vessel, each well burdened.

“They are fools if they think they can convert Somreyans so soon after the war,” High Priest Haleed muttered.

Meeran looked at the old man. “So you do believe that is why the Pentadrians are here?”

“Why else?” Haleed replied sullenly.

“Of course it is.” Arleej gave Haleed a mocking glance. “They are convinced their gods are the only true gods. We already know how single-minded those with such beliefs can be.”

Haleed’s chin rose. “They will fail,” he said. “Our gods are real. Theirs are not. They must be more forceful or clever to convince others to join them. In the attempt they will cause much trouble.”

Arleej made a disbelieving noise.

“You disagree?” the priest asked.

“I agree that they will cause strife here,” she said. “What I wonder is how you can be so sure their gods aren’t real.”

“Because the Circle has told us they are the only ones.”