Voice of the Gods

:Especially when that follower is one of Chaia’s lovers, Emerahl pointed out.

:Ex-lover, Tamun corrected.

:I think it’s time Mirar knew about that, Emerahl told them. I think it’s time he learned how Auraya regards him.

The Twins were silent a moment.

:Yes. Tell him. He is among good people. They will support him, Tamun said.

:And one there is quite willing to provide comfort if he asks for it, Surim added.

Comfort? Emerahl thought, amused. The Twins regularly skimmed the minds of anyone near Emerahl and Mirar, keeping a watch for anyone intending harm. It hadn’t occurred to Emerahl what else they might notice. So Mirar has an admirer in the Dreamweaver House. How well timed, she mused.

:I will tell him tonight, she said.

:Gently, Tamun advised.

:Of course. What do you think I am?

:Someone who has known him a long time. You have known him when he was made of tougher stuff. He is not the same person now. Remember that.

:I will, Emerahl assured her.

:Good. Good night. Travel well.

As The Twins’ minds faded from Emerahl’s perception, she turned her thoughts to that of an old friend.

:Mirar, she called.

There was no reply. She roused herself enough to open an eye. The sky was dark, but still glowed where the sun had set. It was still too early.

Go to sleep, Mirar, she thought. Don’t you know how annoyingly suspenseful it is when you’re waiting to deliver bad news?

The dining hall of the Dreamweaver House had been full this night. Mirar had allowed himself to be recruited as a helper in the kitchen. He had listened to the constant chatter of the Dreamweavers there and during the meal, enjoying the relaxed, unworried mood of the house - and concentrating on trying to pick up more of the local language.

Being able to pick up emotions made it easier to understand these people, but it was a barrier as well as a boon when it came to learning the languages they spoke. It was easy, sometimes, to guess what they were saying from what he sensed rather than from the actual words they spoke. He must make himself note the words and work out what they meant.

It also helped that a fellow Northern Ithanian Dreamweaver with some knowledge of the southern languages had arrived the night before. Dreamweaver Moore was in Dekkar to collect or buy cures.

“Genrians have a crazy idea that the more exotic and distant the origin of a cure, the better it must be,” he had told Mirar. “They’ll pay us a lot of money for them, which we then put to good use providing perfectly adequate local cures for less affluent patients. There are many cures unique to Dekkar’s jungle, though the last time I came here there was more of it. These people seem set on cutting the whole jungle down.”

There was a mood of anticipation among the Dreamweavers. Mirar had guessed that a ritual or celebration was going to take place. After the meal he helped clear the table and clean up. When all was in order, the Dreamweavers followed Tintel down a corridor and out onto a balcony. Tintel had shown Mirar this place the morning after he had arrived. It was like a wooden courtyard, but was raised above the ground. Potted plants and low walls were arranged in a large circle in the center, and the curved triangular spaces left by this formed small gardens with limited privacy.

The scent of flowers filled the humid air and the whir and creak of insect calls was so constant and powerful he could almost feel the heavy air vibrating. Mirar hadn’t grown used to the heat: it made him sleepy during the day and unable to sleep during the night. The local Dreamweavers were affected by it, too, but not as much as he.

They formed a circle. Recognizing the beginning of a link ceremony, Mirar felt a twinge of anxiety. He considered again the possibility that his mind shield might allow him to join a link without revealing his own thoughts. He wouldn’t know until he tried, but if he failed his identity might be revealed.

The Dreamweavers linked hands and bowed their heads. Mirar felt a pang of frustration and longing. Except for the link he had joined in Somrey, it had been a long time since he had experienced the sense of belonging a link could bring.

It is a cruel irony that I, the man who invented this ritual, who founded these people’s way of life, should now hesitate to join them, he thought. But there is much I can learn from them, and about the people of Southern Ithania. It is worth the risk.

He felt the grip of the man holding his right hand tighten, then the hand on his left twitched. Carefully, keeping the shield about his own mind strong, he sought the minds of those around him. Soon he could hear voices and see snatches of memories.

He saw the memory of a Dreamweaver who had examined a sick baby. The infant had underdeveloped and deformed organs, and could not be cured by any ordinary Dreamweaver. The father was a Pentadrian Servant, Mirar saw with a shock. The Dreamweaver had given the man the bad news. The Pentadrian had accepted it, saying that if a Dreamweaver could not cure the child, nobody could...

... taxes were raised this year, probably to pay for the construction of the bridge. A Servant of the Gods had examined the House’s records and was satisfied, and only asked for a small bribe. He was still grateful for the advice given to him and his wife about their marital troubles. Doesn’t realize how common that...

... water lapped at the edges of the platform the Dreamweaver House was built upon. The flood had threatened to spill into the building last year. What would it be like this year...

... where there had been enormous trees there were now charred trunks surrounded by crops. Memories of the former forest and of the new fields overlaid each other. Shocking, but the locals need to eat. Trouble is, he hadn’t been able to find that little plant with the pink flowers again. Hope that wasn’t the only place it...

... she is so beautiful. Glimpse of naked body hastily pushed aside...

... then where would he go? North up the gulf? Not likely. Back to the west? Doubt it. What if he went south? What if he’s here somewhere? He could be in this very courtyard now...

... thinking about these stories that Mirar has returned. Not even sure I believe them. If Mirar’s back, why haven’t any of us seen him? No...

Mirar suppressed the urge to laugh out loud. Even during a mind link, the Dreamweavers were still gossiping about his return. But then he sobered. They were watching for him. He must be careful.

Or must he? Would it be so bad if he allowed his identity to be known?

He listened and watched as the link continued. As always, one person’s memories attracted the attention of the others. Advice was bestowed, or assurance given. At one point a Dreamweaver delved into memories of a recent festival in the city, and the others watched with interest. Nobody appeared to react to his own thoughts, and then he heard Tintel noting that he hadn’t joined the link. It worked, he thought with relief.

Then Tintel called for the end of the link. Minds withdrew as Dreamweavers brought their awareness back to themselves, asserting their own identity as they did. Mirar opened his eyes and let go of the hands he had been holding. Dreamweavers around him did the same. He noticed one watching him.

Dardel. She smiled and winked at him, as subtle as ever. He smiled in reply. Something plucked at his thoughts. He sought it, but it was gone.

I think someone is trying to dream-link with me.

Some Dreamweavers were lingering, talking in small groups. Others were saying their farewells. Mirar slipped away, made his way to his room and closed the door. In the relative silence, he felt the tug at his mind again.

Lying down on his bed, he guided his mind into a dream trance. There he drifted for several minutes. Just when he began to wonder if he had been wrong, a familiar voice spoke at the edge of his thoughts.

:Mirar?