Voice of the Gods
Trudi Canavan
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The man staggering through the hospice door was covered in blood. It streaked his face and clothing, and leaked from between fingers pressed to his brow. As the occupants of the greeting hall saw him they fell silent, then the noise and activity resumed. Someone would take care of him.
When the newcomer saw her approaching he looked relieved.
“Welcome to the hospice,” she said. “What is your name?”
“Mal Toolmaker.”
“What happened to you?”
“Robbed.”
“Let me see that.” He reluctantly allowed her to lift his hand from his brow. A cut to the bone seeped more blood. She pressed his hand back over the wound. “It needs some stitches.”
His gaze slid to the nearest Dreamweaver. “You’ll do it?”
She suppressed a sigh and indicated that he should follow her down the corridor. “Yes. Come with me.”
It was not unheard of for a visitor to the hospice to request a Circlian healer, but it was unusual. Most who came here were prepared to accept any help. Those who did not like or trust Dreamweavers went elsewhere.
Dreamweavers worked with Circlian priests and priestesses readily enough, and vice versa. They all knew they were healing many people who would not have received any help before. But a century of prejudice against Dreamweavers could not be erased in a few months. Ella had not expected it to be. Nor did she even want it to be. Dreamweavers did not worship the gods, so their souls died when their bodies did. She had great respect for them as healers - nobody who worked alongside them could deny being impressed by their knowledge and skill - but their dismissive, distrustful view of the gods irritated her.
Recently a new group that called themselves “true Circlians” had begun harassing the hospice workers. Their arrogant belief that their worship of the gods was more worthy than hers irritated her even more than the Dreamweavers’ indifference. The only issue she agreed with them on was the Pentadrians. Unlike Pentadrians, Dreamweavers never claimed to follow gods - gods that didn’t exist - or used that deception to convince a continent of people that Circlians were heathens and deserved to be exterminated.
A young priest, Naen, stepped into the doorway when she had nearly finished.
“Your mother just arrived, Priestess Ella.”
She frowned. “Tell her I’ll see her as soon as I’m finished with this patient.”
Ella straightened and looked around. There was no sign of the woman she had heard.
A thrill of both excitement and fear ran down Ella’s spine. At the same time she heard one of the priests in the greeting room raise his voice.
“There is a crowd blocking the street outside. They won’t let us leave the hospice... no, we can’t... best to wait it out.”
Ella sighed, then felt a chill of realization.
Ella froze and looked at the man sitting before her. He stared back at her, his pupils wide. It wasn’t just the pain making him edgy, she realized. It was fear.
Her mouth went dry and her heart began to race. He might be more Gifted than her. He was certainly physically stronger than her. If this went wrong...
