Voice of the Gods

will try to destroy you. And the easier it will be for you to thwart her. He paused. Never forget that while she may not be able to harm you easily, she can harm those you love.

Auraya found herself thinking of Mirar. Though she did not care for him as she had cared for Leiard, she did not want him harmed because Huan thought she did. Fortunately he was out of Huan’s reach in Southern Ithania.

Who else might Huan harm? Mischief? That would be a low and petty thing to do. Danjin? Auraya liked him, but he wasn’t her adviser any more. Her father? She hadn’t seen him in years...

:How can I protect them? Huan can see their minds. She can find them.

:You can’t, Chaia said. You can only try not to give Huan anything which she can use to persuade the other gods to act against you. I will... He stopped abruptly. Go back, Auraya. And do not seek to speak to me this way again. Just as you can hear us talking, we can hear you talking, and it would not take much for your new ability to be noticed.

Abruptly he moved away, flitting out of reach of her senses. She withdrew to her own body again. Opening her eyes, she looked around the bower and felt a pang of loneliness.

So this is the price of learning what the gods did not want me to learn - instead of bringing harm to myself, I must ensure I don’t start to love anyone, for fear Huan will strike at them to get at me.

She stood up and began pacing. This isn’t fair! she thought. Then she let out a bitter laugh. Listen to me; I sound like a child.

But it wasn’t fair. And if Huan was willing to harm innocent people just to hurt Auraya, she was every bit as despicable as Mirar claimed she was. And if the other gods agreed with her? She let out an explosive sigh of dismay. Then I’m doomed. Ithania is doomed.

A whimper broke Auraya’s train of thought. Looking up, she saw that Mischief was watching her, his eyes wide and dark and his whiskers trembling. She sensed fear and concern. Her frustration and anger faded and she walked over to pat him and murmur reassuring words.

Lies, she couldn’t help thinking. I’m afraid everything isn’t all right, Mischief. But one thing is true: I won’t let anyone harm you.

The screech of birds echoed over the town and Servant Teroan cursed under his breath. He was late again. Though it was possible that the bird trainers had misjudged the release time for their charges’ exercise flight, it was unlikely.

About as likely as the sun misjudging the time to rise, he told himself. Dedicated Servant Cherinor has more sundials than anyone else in Avven.

It was said the man in charge of the town and the birds had even trained his favorite to squawk on the hour. And that his assistant Servant kept a schedule for Cherinor that was planned to the minute. And that Cherinor didn’t sleep.

I doubt he appreciates the pleasure of a long bath and conversation, Teroan thought sourly. If he does, I bet every minute is choreographed to ensure no time is wasted.

The path to the Baths was steep and he was panting by the time he reached the entrance. He paused to catch his breath. The view here was good and it was a shame the Baths had so few windows. They had to keep the warm air inside from escaping, he supposed.

From the doorway he could see most of the town. Klaff’s houses were the same color as the cliffs. The main road wound out of the town, through the valley, then straightened and thinned into the distance. Somewhere at its end was Glymma and the Sanctuary.

He’d cursed his luck when he’d been sent here. The capital cities of Mur and Dekkar were villages compared to Avven’s, and in comparison to them Klaff was a one-house hamlet. The troupes of actors he used to enjoy watching never came here. He had to order wine or any delicacy or luxury he craved from Glymma, at great expense, and his wife constantly complained about the noise of the birds. The only consolation was the Baths. They were as good as, if not better, than those at Glymma’s Sanctuary.

The hills around the town were riddled with caves and some contained springs. The water was not as pure as that at the Sanctuary but the locals claimed the red-brown coloring was from a mineral that was good for one’s health. The mineral was filtered out of the drinking water and sold throughout Southern Ithania as a rejuvenating mud that could be painted onto the skin.

Birds wheeled not far above, their screeching deafening. He winced and turned back to the door. Sometimes he couldn’t help agreeing with his wife. It was not a pleasant sound.

A domestic greeted Teroan, tracing the sign of the gods over his chest, and ushered him down a familiar corridor. Most of the doors they passed were curtained with hangings, but a few were uncovered. He glimpsed slaves in these, near naked, scrubbing the walls. A sharp smell stung his nostrils and made his eyes water. He wondered how the slaves endured it.

The domestic stopped at a door and waved Teroan inside. The room he walked into had been recently cleaned. Teroan thought it a shame, as the patterns that the green mold formed had made it easy for him to imagine he was soaking in some natural pool in the middle of a forest somewhere.

Still, the mold had smelled bad. The room now smelled like the ocean. He chuckled as he approached the room’s only other occupant.

“Sea salts again, Dameen?”

The man looked up and grinned. “Reminds me of home.”

Teroan peeled off the layers of his Servant robes and tossed them on a bench next to Dameen’s neatly folded ones. He stepped down into the tepid water, then lowered himself onto one of the ledges. The red-brown murk of the water did not quite hide his rolls of fat or the absence of his friend’s legs below the knees. Somehow Dameen had managed to keep his muscular good looks despite his injury. Teroan suspected the man maintained a routine of exercise out of habit, unable to completely put aside his warrior training.

They sat in silence for some time, content to relax in each other’s company.

“I had a strange dream last night,” Dameen said eventually.

“Oh?”

“I dreamed the leader of the Dreamweavers came to Southern Ithania.”

Teroan looked at his friend in surprise. “I dreamed of the same man last night. I suppose the rumors of his return are working on our minds. What happened in your dream?”

“I asked myself what I’d do if I was one of the Voices...” He paused and frowned. “Or maybe someone else asked me... I can’t remember.”

“The same happened in my dream. What did you decide?”

“That I’d do nothing, so long as he didn’t cause trouble.”

Teroan nodded. “Me, too. It could only be a good thing, if he returned. He made the Dreamweavers good at healing; he might make them even better. We owe them a lot for the help they gave us after the battle, too.”

“Yes.” Dameen looked down at the stumps of his legs and shrugged. “But then I’m biased. This morning I found myself thinking about it again. The Voices might not see it that way. They’d see a powerful sorcerer who might turn people against them.”

“What do you think they’d do?”

“Kuar would have made him an ally.” He frowned. “I don’t know Nekaun. I have no idea what he’d do.”

Teroan smiled. The warrior couldn’t help himself. He was supposed to have left his past behind him, but while his body might no longer be whole his mind was as lively as ever.

A waste, he thought. He couldn’t accept anyone in place of Kuar, so he wound up here, his potential as an adviser lost.

For that Teroan was selfishly grateful. If Dameen left Klaff, who else around here was interesting and intelligent enough to talk to? Certainly not the bird breeders. Or his wife.

“Do you think it strange that we had the same dream on the same night?” Teroan asked.