The Last of the Wilds

the disease?

“Wilar,” Tryli said, nodding. “He arrived the day before yesterday and has worked two nights and a day without rest. Your arrival is well-timed. I feared what would happen to him if he did not stop to rest, but also what would happen to us if he did. And Tyve—”

Her words were lost behind a piercing whistle. All turned to watch as a young Siyee swooped toward them.

“Tyve!” Reet called, relief giving his voice strength. As the newcomer landed, Auraya smiled. Even if she hadn’t been able to see Reet’s thoughts she would have known the approaching Siyee was his brother. They looked so alike.

“Reet!” Tyve replied. “You made it. Wait!” He held out his hands to stop his brother from embracing him. “We have to be careful. I’ve been around many of the sick. I might have picked up the disease. I wouldn’t want to give it to you.”

Reet stared at Tyve in horror. “You have it...?”

Tyve shrugged. “I don’t think so, but Wilar says we have to be careful not to touch or breathe on each other, just in case.” His eyes slid to Auraya. “Welcome, Auraya of the White. Have you also come to help us?”

Auraya nodded. “I have. Tryli was just telling me of the healer who is helping you. Would you take me to him?”

Tyve grinned. “Of course. Follow me.”

As Tyve dove off the edge of the platform she leapt after him. Ropes had been strung between the platforms and they had to swoop over and under them. Reading his mind, she learned that he had come up with the idea of a sliding sling that allowed the healer to move from one platform to another easily.

A familiar updraft enabled Tyve to soar a little higher. He swooped around a branch and glided to a large platform with three bowers. Landing, he paused to wait for her to arrive, then led her to the entrance of one of the homes.

The interior was dimly lit, the only source of illumination a single lamp. Two Siyee children lay in low-slung beds and a woman lay in another behind them. Standing before them, with his back to Auraya, was a Dreamweaver.

Of course, she thought. He had to be a Dreamweaver. Who else would bother travelling into wild and distant places to heal others?

There was something strange about him. It took a moment before she realized what it was.

I can’t read his mind! I can’t sense anything from him! I can’t...

The man turned to face her and she froze in shock.

Leiard!

His hair was black and he was clean-shaven. He had put on weight. But it was definitely him. Her stomach sank, yet at the same time her heart lifted. Somehow a part of her managed to remain detached enough to find this contradictory reaction amusing. Am I happy to see him - or not?

She did not need to read his thoughts to see he was dismayed to see her, however. His stare was cold. His mouth had slowly twisted into a humorless smile.

Tyve gestured toward him. “This is Wilar the Dreamweaver,” he said, enjoying the importance of the introduction. “Wilar the Dreamweaver, this is—”

“Auraya of the White,” Leiard said quietly. “We’ve met.”

Tyve radiated surprise and curiosity. “You know each other?”

“Yes,” she replied. “Though he went by a different name then.” And his hair wasn’t dark, she added silently. It does not suit him.

“A name I have put behind me,” he replied. “Along with the mistakes I made. I would prefer you did not use my old name,” he told her. “I am Wilar now.”

“Wilar, then,” she said. Mistakes? Does he mean our affair, or his unkind method of ending it by fleeing into the arms of a whore? She felt a sullen anger rising, but pushed it aside. It doesn’t matter. I’d prefer the Siyee did not know about our past, so if he wants to be called Wilar that’s good enough for me. I’ve hardly got the time to dwell on it anyway. There are sick Siyee to attend to. They are more important.

She crossed her arms. “So, Wilar the Dreamweaver. What state is this tribe in, and where would my help be of most benefit?”

A strong southwesterly wind had sent Emerahl along the coast of Genria in what she would have said was good time, except she was in no hurry and had no particular destination in mind. The steady wind seemed to want her to speed along in that direction, and she was still reluctant to spend more than a day or two in any seaside town, so she had given herself up to its will. Her only concern was that if she travelled too quickly, and The Gull, having found her message, was following her, he might not be able to catch up.

The sun was baking her from high above when Aime appeared around a bluff ahead. Like Jarime, the city had grown around an estuary, but this was a river mouth of a much larger scale. The tributaries of the river were too wide for bridges - or at least nobody had been successful at building one since the last time Emerahl was there. As more of the estuary came into sight she saw that the water was just as crowded with ferries as it always had been.

On each point of land was a cluster of buildings. She could only suppose that matters were still the same here: with each cluster so independent of the others that they may as well be considered cities themselves. Each had its own docks, market, laws and ruling family.

As another group of buildings appeared Emerahl smiled in recognition. The Isle of Kings hadn’t changed, though there might have been a few more buildings in the garden area. Colorful banners painted with an ancient design told her that the King of Genria still lived in there, though it looked as if there was a different ruling family in charge.

Everything looks the same, she thought. I expect the language has developed, as the Toren one has. The money-changers will give me a terrible exchange rate - that never changes. What is...?

She sat up straighter as something completely unfamiliar appeared. A large ship with black sails was moored in the estuary. On its side had been painted a large white star.

Pentadrians! What are they doing here? She directed her little boat toward the strange vessel. Maybe the Genrians had captured it. As she drew closer she saw two black-robed men on deck, talking to four well-dressed locals. Tied close to the hull was a smaller Genrian vessel. Workers were lowering boxes from the ship into the boat.

This is some kind of trade, Emerahl mused. Less than a year since the war and already everyone’s friendly enough for a business transaction or two. Changing direction, she headed toward the nearest docks. Maybe not that friendly, she amended. The ship is a long way from land. The king may have forbidden them to dock. His position might not be strong enough for him to outlaw trading with the Pentadrians, however. I wonder which family decided to, and if they did so because the goods are worthwhile or just to annoy the king.

She directed her boat toward the leftmost edge of the city, selecting one of the smaller mooring areas where wooden piers had been built for minor craft like hers. Several fishing vessels were tied up and all was quiet, since their occupants would have left for the markets hours before. As she neared the wooden structure a cheerful- looking round man stepped out of a building and walked to the edge of the pier.

“Good morning,” she called. “Would you be the master of moorings?”

He grinned. “I am. My name is Toore Steerer.”

She smiled. “Greetings, Toore Steerer. How much for a mooring?”

He chewed on his bottom lip. “How long you staying?”

“A few days. I’m hoping to earn some money with my healing skills before I move on.”

Toore’s eyebrows rose. “Healing skills, eh? I’ll put the word about that you’re here. What’s your name?”

“That’s kind of you. My name is Limma. Limma Curer.”

He chewed on his lip some more. “Two coppers a day. Mind you, don’t tell anyone, though, or they’ll come asking why I’m selling moorings so cheap.”