Voice of the Gods

Perhaps she spent so much time with him that she never stepped back and looked at him. But the changes were not only physical. And Surim had changed himself slowly to give her time to get used to it. He had become more adventurous, too.

I guess he couldn’t before, she thought. They had been connected physically as well as mentally. She ran a hand over the scar on her side. As always, the memory of their separation brought pain and sadness, but it had been a relief as well. More for him than me, she admitted. We may be twins, but we are different in many ways. I sit in our cave and resent him for leaving me alone, afraid that if anyone sees me the gods will find me. He explores the swamp, and mingles with the people there sure that the change prevents the gods from recognizing him.

And now she was far from the Red Caves, far from the swamp, speeding across the water to the very place where thousands of mortals, and perhaps a few immortals, would see her - and the gods were sure to gather. She shivered. It was madness. But it was also inarguably sensible. If they were ever going to kill the gods, they had to be close to them.

That the opportunity would arise in the next few days was doubtful. If she thought about that too much she felt unpleasantly giddy. Closing her eyes, she stretched out in search of other minds.

She found some fishermen first. They were returning late from their morning’s work. Next she encountered the crew of a trader ship heading south to supply Diamyane. Several Sennon fighters and a Circlian priest were aboard and Dunwayan warships sailed close by. They were anticipating attempts by Pentadrians to stop supplies reaching the Circlian army.

Moving further away, she was drawn to the hum of many minds. The Circlian army now marched along the coast. They knew they were a day’s journey from Diamyane. The more experienced priests, priestesses and soldiers looked ahead to the battle with both dread and determination.

Another shift brought her to their destination. Diamyane was populated by scavengers, Dreamweavers and Sennon troops sent ahead to prepare for the army’s arrival. She sought the minds of the Dreamweavers, then searched for Emerahl in their thoughts. Or the woman Emerahl was pretending to be.

There she is.

Tamun smiled at the thoughts of the woman regarding the red-haired stranger. Arleej, official leader of the Dreamweavers, was not sure what to make of Emmea. Mirar had told her to include Emmea in all discussions and plans. The woman was likeable enough, if a bit impatient at times.

Arleej was relating to Emerahl what had happened when she told Juran of the White of Mirar’s decision that he and all Dreamweavers could use their Gifts to protect whichever side they chose.

“He turned white,” Arleej said.

Emerahl chuckled. “What did he say?”

“He accepted our offer of help. I suspect he wanted to refuse. He must have suspicions of treachery, but since the Circlians are weaker already with Mirar joining their enemy, he has to take that risk.”

“You aren’t tempted to turn on the Circlians, are you?”

“No, of course not.” Arleej was amused by the question. “Juran also agreed with my suggestion that some of us follow behind the White when they walk down the Isthmus to meet the Voices, as Mirar is sure to be with the enemy.”

“I’d like to be a part of that group,” Emerahl said. “Mirar sent me to you because I am strong, and I can help redress the balance of power he’s been forced to upset.”

Arleej considered, then nodded. “You’re welcome.”

The conversation turned to practical matters and Tamun wouldn’t be able to dream-link with Emerahl until the woman was asleep, so she moved southward to another mass of minds. The Pentadrian army marched toward the Isthmus. They were half a day from the beginning of the land bridge, but didn’t intend to cross it. It took her longer to find Mirar, as there was only one unshielded mind in his proximity. The woman’s name was Reivan, and her role was as a Companion to the Second Voice, Imenja.

Reivan regarded Mirar with wary respect. She liked his ideals and dislike of violence, but didn’t think they were practical. Knowing she was in the presence of a man over a thousand years old had her more than a little awed. When she regarded the Pentadrian leader her mind filled with conflicting emotions and thoughts: the lingering remains of infatuation, worry, anger and a slowly but steadily growing hatred.

:Tamun? Surim?

Tamun recognized The Gull’s mental voice. Drawing reluctantly away from the Companion, she focused on her fellow immortal.

:Greetings, Gull. Where are you?

:Nearing the Gulf of Sorrow. I shall reach the Isthmus tonight.

:Do you know of the tunnels Emerahl described?

:Yes. I used them often when they were open.

:We just have to hope there’s one underneath the place the White meet the Voices.

:I have thought of a solution to this problem. If I were to collapse a small section of the Isthmus, they would be forced to stand on either side in order to face each other.

:Ah. Doubts crept in as she considered this. But they will wonder who collapsed it and why. It might make the gods suspicious.

:It might, he conceded. I could make it look like a natural occurrence.

:But it would still seem too much of a coincidence.

:Then I can think of only one other solution.

:Oh?

:I will have to carve out a tunnel along the center of the Isthmus, underneath the road.

:That will take time.

:A day or so. I will begin at the center, where the White and Voices are most likely to meet. There is only one drawback.

:What is that?

:It may cause the Isthmus to collapse anyway. Hopefully in a few years’ time, not while I am inside it.

:Then you should be careful, Gull. We will find you if it does. We will dig you out, if we must.

:Then I had best seek lessons on surviving burial from Mirar, he said wryly. I had better go. The roale will forget he is carrying me if I don’t remind him from time to time. I won’t arrive by tonight if he decides to dive.

As his mind faded from hers, Tamun took a few deep breaths. What they were doing was dangerous in more ways than one. It might not even work. But she would try again and again if it meant freedom from the gods.

Some risks were worth taking.

47

The sun had slipped beneath the horizon a short time ago, sinking with steady purpose as if it patiently went through its paces knowing that tomorrow’s battle would come in good time. A glow filled the western sky, in parts strangely colored. As Reivan walked toward it she wondered if a Thinker somewhere knew why the sky at these times could be such improbable colors like green and purple.

Then she reached Imenja and stopped. The Second Voice was staring at the Isthmus, which was bathed in the eerie light of the glowing sky. It stretched away into the gloom toward a barely visible shadow.

Sennon. Northern Ithania.

“They haven’t arrived yet,” Imenja told her.