Voice of the Gods

to resign and remain a priestess on the condition that I do not hamper them or ally myself with their enemies. It’s quite clear they consider you an enemy. I should have left here as soon as I knew that Jade was your friend, even if that meant the gods would discover her, even if that meant the gods might find you.

:But you didn’t.

:No. You’ve both taken advantage of me. Forced me to learn to hide my thoughts in order to protect you.

:We’ve forced you to learn something that might save your life.

:Or end it.

:So you believe the gods will kill you if they can’t read your thoughts?

Auraya paused. Anger and weariness were making her say illogical things.

:No. It will just make matters worse between us. Is this your way of avenging yourself? Are you punishing me or trying to force me to turn from the gods?

:Neither! I want to help you by teaching you to protect yourself. I want you to be all that you are meant to be - deserve to be! A powerful sorceress. An immortal. He paused. Don’t you want to be immortal?

Auraya felt a shiver go through her. Do I? Of course I do. But I don’t want to be immortal if it means turning from the gods. I don’t want to be a Wild, hunted and hated.

She felt anger deepen, but this time at the gods. Why does it have to be like that? I can be immortal and still worship the gods. Why must they stop me from becoming all I can be, when it is of no threat to them?

Perhaps Chaia would allow her that freedom, but Huan never would. Huan wanted unquestioning obedience from her worshippers. I’ve already lost her regard by proving myself unworthy, she thought. Perhaps eventually she’ll forgive me. In the meantime it would be better not to give the goddess any further reason to distrust me.

:Jade says when you taught me to heal you taught me enough so that I could discover the secret of immortality for myself, she said to Mirar. Perhaps one day I’ll be in a position to try it without offending the gods. But for now it’s pointless. What you call immortality isn’t true immortality. I can still be killed. And I will be, if I defy the gods again.

Mirar was silent for a long time before he replied.

:The gods can hold grudges for a very long time, Auraya. They might not use magic to kill you, but they can make sure age does it for them. And remember this: if I thought becoming immortal was the only reason the gods might kill you, I’d never have risked teaching you to heal.

And with that, he was gone.

6

Older people are supposed to be the cautious ones, Ranaan thought as he followed Dreamweaver Fareeh down the dark alley. Younger people are the ones that rush into danger. So what’s wrong with us? Why is my teacher the one willing to take risks while I’m the one who’s scared out of his wits?

They reached the end of the alley and Fareeh stopped to peer around a building into the larger street.

Because I’m a coward, Ranaan told himself, and Fareeh isn’t. It’s easier for him, too. He’s Gifted and he’s big. I’m a skinny runt, and I know I haven’t even learned enough Gifts in six months to defend myself from an attack of dartflies.

The big man stepped out into the street. Taking a deep breath, Ranaan forced himself to follow. They walked purposefully but kept to the shadows as much as possible. In this part of the city the only lamps that burned were those maintained by the occupants of the houses. The moon, however, was bright and round.

Ranaan glanced at his teacher. The Dreamweaver’s quiet confidence reassured patients at the hospice. He was everything they liked about Dreamweavers: sturdy, calm, knowledgeable and patient. He made these trips out to visit sick people despite the dangers because he was a nice person.

I just wish he didn’t insist I come with him.

Ranaan grimaced. I am not a nice person. I’m a coward who’d rather let someone die than risk a beating. I don’t deserve such a good teacher.

A door opened ahead. Ranaan’s heart began racing as three men stepped out, laughing. Fareeh did not even check his stride. He walked around them, Ranaan following.

The young Dreamweaver’s legs were shaking as he and his teacher continued down the road. He strained his ears for sounds of pursuit. There were footsteps, growing quieter. Was that because the men were making an effort to make less noise?

He looked behind. The men were walking in the other direction.

“Nearly there,” Fareeh murmured.

Ranaan glanced at his teacher and caught a knowing smile. He felt his face warm and said nothing. They turned into a lane. Fareeh paused and created a spark of light to illuminate the directions on the slip of paper he carried. He nodded, extinguished the light, and continued down the lane.

The way turned around a protruding section of a building then ended. Fareeh slowed and began looking up at the buildings around them.

“It says they have left a light in the...”

His quiet words were lost behind the bang of a slammed door. Footsteps sounded behind them. Ranaan turned and felt his heart begin to race again. He counted eight, maybe nine figures fanning out to surround him and his teacher.

“What are you doing here, Dreamweaver?”

The accent was typical of the poor quarter, but there was something about it that sounded wrong to Ranaan.

Fareeh gave the windows of the buildings one more quick glance.

“Discovering that I am in the wrong place,” he replied. “The directions I was given appear to be incorrect.”

“You’re right about that,” another voice said. Ranaan looked at the speaker. The man’s high voice did not match his heavy build.

“We will trouble you no longer,” Fareeh said. He took a step toward the gap between two of the men, then stopped. The men had moved closer together to block him.

Ranaan held back a groan of dismay and fear. His legs were shaking and he felt ill. He wondered if his heart could beat any faster. If it did, it might just leap out of his throat.

A spark of light appeared, illuminating the palm of Fareeh’s hand. It brightened and Ranaan looked beyond to the faces of the men. His mouth went dry as he understood why the poor-quarter accent had sounded wrong.

This was no street gang of the area. The accents had been faked. Though the clothes the men wore were plain, they were well made - casual wear for outdoor sports. Their smiles revealed near-flawless teeth. The high- voiced man was not muscular, but wore the fat of one who lived an indulgent life.

One, a blond with immaculately trimmed hair, took a step forward.

“You’re right,” he said. “You’re definitely not going to trouble us again.”

Then the lane contorted with magic. Ranaan heard Fareeh tell him to stay within his shield. He huddled against his teacher as attacks came from all sides.

All of them. They’re all Gifted. How can this be? Are the rich buying magical training for those sons who do not become priests?

Fareeh gave a small grunt of anger. He reached behind and gripped Ranaan’s arm. Pulling his student around, he leaned close.

“I’ll hold them,” he murmured. “You go. Go to the hospice. Get help.”

Ranaan staggered as Fareeh propelled him away. He saw the strangers turn to attack him and felt a rush of terror. His legs found their strength and he fled. Nothing stopped him. No one stepped out from the darkness to