Voice of the Gods

Open?”

Auraya nodded. “My place is with the Siyee.”

“Well then, remember this: if you find the gods don’t agree, you have a place among us immortals, if you need it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You do that.” Jade chuckled. “You do realize we’ll be watching closely to see what the gods will do. They’ve claimed all immortals are evil for a century. If they accept you, they prove themselves wrong.”

Auraya smiled. “Assuming I’m not evil.”

Jade laughed. “Yes.” She turned away and moved back to her pack. Putting her cup down, she held the bread between her teeth and stowed a few more items with quick, decisive movements. Then she picked up the pack and returned to the beds.

“Good luck, Auraya the immortal,” she said.

Auraya rose. “Thank you, Jade. You took a risk coming here. I do appreciate it.”

The woman shrugged. “I did it for Mirar, remember. He’s the one you should thank.”

“Maybe I will, next time he interrupts my dreams.”

Jade’s eyebrows rose. “Dreams, eh? Like that, is it?”

Auraya laughed. “Not for a long time. Go on, then. The sooner you leave, the sooner I can return to the Siyee.”

The woman turned away and strode toward the cave entrance. She paused and looked back once, then disappeared into the shadows. Auraya regarded the entrance for a long time after the woman had gone.

She’s a strange one, she thought. Cranky, cynical, but also strong and determined. I imagine that’s what living so long does to a person. Will I get like that? I suppose there’s worse I could be. Underneath all the moodiness, there’s an optimism in Jade that reassures me. She can still laugh at things. Maybe that’s because she’s been through so much that she knows it’s only a matter of time before bad situations sort themselves out.

She had agreed to give Jade three days’ head start before leaving the cave herself. Auraya had no idea how far a land-bound person could travel in three days. Hopefully far enough to evade any Siyee scouts the gods might send after her.

She’s lived this long, Auraya told herself. I’m sure she can take care of herself.

Picking up her half of the bread, she began to eat.

Tintel was silent as she led Mirar from platform to platform. He sensed that her mind was occupied with planning and worrying, and he felt a pang of sympathy. A city Dreamweaver House was always a busy place, and the more Dreamweavers there were to organize, the more organizing there was to do. He couldn’t help her with that, only with the sorts of healing emergencies they had dealt with tonight.

If she hadn’t worked out that he was powerfully Gifted before, she knew it now. They had visited a woman bleeding profusely after bearing a child, and the only way Mirar had been able to save her was to heal her magically. Tintel had clearly been impressed, but hadn’t said anything.

She had also tried a method he had never encountered before in an attempt to stem the bleeding. He had noted a few other improvements in the local Dreamweavers’ knowledge since coming here, as well. Advances and discoveries ought to filter through to Dreamweavers everywhere through mind links, but clearly the restrictions and intolerance in the north had prevented or slowed the transferral of knowledge there.

They crossed the bridge to the Dreamweaver House. He opened the door for Tintel, and she smiled in gratitude.

“I wish the men of Dekkar had the manners of those of the north,” she said wryly. “Thank you for your help, Wilar.”

He shrugged and followed her inside. The smell of food filled the hall and his stomach grumbled.

“I’ll get someone to bring you some food,” he said, guessing that Tintel would go straight to her room to work.

“Thank you.” She nodded. “Don’t forget yourself.”

He smiled. “I won’t.”

A few servants and Dreamweavers remained in the kitchen. One Dreamweaver woman was preparing a meal for her infant daughter, while another was complaining about her husband’s snoring. There was soup and the local doughy bread left over from dinner. He asked the complaining wife to take Tintel a serve of both, then took a portion out to the hall.

Several of the younger Dreamweavers were sitting around the table. They all looked up as he arrived, then quickly down at their meals. An awkward silence followed and Mirar sensed a mix of suppressed amusement and speculation from them.

He set his plate on the table, sat down and began to eat.

The silence continued, now imbued with embarrassment. When one of the Dreamweavers cleared his throat to speak, relief spread among the rest.

“Forgive our silence, Wilar,” the Dreamweaver said. “Your arrival made us see we were gossiping.”

Mirar smiled. “People gossip. It is in their...” He searched for the right word for “nature” and one of the Dreamweavers supplied it. “What did I miss?”

They smiled and exchanged glances. His question had eased some of their embarrassment, but not the tension in the room.

“The newest talk is that you are Mirar,” the youngest Dreamweaver said in Avvenan.

The others frowned at the young man disapprovingly. He spread his hands. “He should know. What if someone takes it seriously? It could be awkward.”

Mirar laughed and shook his head. “Mirar? Me? Why? Is it because I am foreign?”

They nodded.

“Mirar came south,” another added. “He must be here somewhere.”

“We don’t know that for sure,” the older Dreamweaver pointed out.

“We don’t know anything for sure.”

They began to talk over each other, making it difficult for Mirar to understand them. Suddenly one of the Dreamweavers who had remained silent turned to him.

“So you’re not Mirar?”

Mirar paused. If he denied a direct question, then in the future, if he needed to reveal his identity, he would also reveal that he had lied to them. It was never good to lie. People resented it, even when they knew it was justified.

So instead he smiled coyly. “I am for someone here, and I don’t want to, er, spoil the illusion for her.”

There were laughs all around. One of the men rolled his eyes.

“Dardel, I bet.”

“But she was the one that suggested it to me,” said another.

“That explains everything.”

They laughed again.

The Dreamweaver next to Mirar leaned closer. “Lucky you,” he murmured.

“We should all tell her she’s right about Wilar, but let everyone else know she’s wrong,” the youngest suggested. “How long do you think we could keep the truth from her?”

“Tintel would tell her.”

“Don’t tell Tintel either.”

“She’d work it out.”

Mirar smiled and listened as they plotted their teasing of Dardel. They didn’t appear to be serious about carrying it out, which was a relief.

What would they do if they found out that she was right? he wondered. These Dreamweavers would probably welcome him with enthusiasm. More than enthusiasm. That was the trouble. It had been so long since he had moved among his own people, they now regarded him with awe.