Shadows sat below Tintel’s eyes. The woman looked older than her years as she regarded Mirar with weary patience.
“What is it, Wilar?”
He took a step back. “You’re tired. I will return tomorrow.”
“No, come in.” She beckoned and turned away, giving him no chance to retreat.
“I’ll be brief then,” he said, stepping into the room and closing the door.
She collapsed into a chair and waved toward another. “You wouldn’t have come here if you didn’t have something you needed to discuss. Have the boys been gossiping again?”
He smiled. “I don’t know. Probably.”
“If it bothers you I will tell them to stop.”
“Which would make no difference at all,” he told her. “They respect and admire you greatly, Dreamweaver Tintel, but trying to stop gossip is like trying to stop the tide.” He shook his head. “No, the only ill effect is that it will make what I have to tell you harder to believe.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Will it? What unbelievable news do you have, then?”
He looked at her and considered what he was about to do. It was a risk. There were benefits to remaining anonymous. None of the hassles of trying to please everyone, for a start.
Yet where would that leave his people? They were strong in this place, but not in others. Perhaps he was wrong in thinking he could help them, but when he looked at Tintel’s worn and weary face he felt a pang of affection and knew he had to try.
“They’re right,” he told her. “I am Mirar.”
She blinked with surprise, opened her mouth to speak, then paused and frowned at him thoughtfully.
“It is hard to believe,” she said. “Yet I find I can’t dismiss it completely.” She pursed her lips. “Nor can I accept it completely.”
He shrugged. “That is what I expected.”
“I need proof.”
“Of course.”
“And something else.”
“Oh?”
“Your forgiveness for doubting, if you do prove to be Mirar.”
He laughed. “I could hardly begrudge you that.”
She did not smile. “If you’re not Mirar...”
“You’ll give me a thorough spanking?” he suggested.
“This is not a matter to joke about.”
“No?” He sobered. “No, it isn’t. I have done all I can to ensure I do not endanger myself or my people by revealing my identity today, but it is still a risk.”
“A risk worth taking?”
“Obviously.” He leaned forward and held out his hand. “Link with me.”
Her frown vanished. She stared at him for a moment, then took his hand. He watched her close her eyes, then shut his own and reached out with his mind.
As her thoughts came clearly to his senses, he drew up memories for her. Old memories of the formation of the Dreamweavers. Memories of healing discoveries and memories of Dreamweavers long dead. Memories of civilizations that had dwindled to nothing long ago and of those that still existed.
He did not show her the gods or their work, his own “death” or his life as Leiard. This should be a moment of joy, not one of relived terror or pain. Drawing away from her mind, he opened his eyes and released her hand. Her eyelids fluttered open. She stared at him, then lowered her eyes.
“I... I don’t know what to say. Or what to do. How should I address you?”
“Just call me Mirar,” he told her firmly, disturbed by her almost subservient behavior. “I am a Dreamweaver, not a god or a king or even a second cousin of the nephew of a prince. I have never led my people by force, only guided them with experience and wisdom - though I have to admit to having failed in the latter more than a few times. Look at me.”
She obeyed. He hadn’t expected her to be so overwhelmed. Reaching forward, he took her hand again.
“You are the leader here, Tintel. That is how I arranged things. One Dreamweaver is chosen to maintain each House and lead those who stay there. They are the authority in that place, and all travelling Dreamweavers should obey them or move on. I am a travelling Dreamweaver. That means you have to order me around, or I’ve got to leave.”
The corner of her mouth twitched and he sensed her amusement.
“That could be a little difficult,” she said. “And the others... they will be in awe of you. They will worship you.”
“Then we’re both going to have to discourage them. My safety - our safety - relies on the Pentadrians thinking I am no threat to them. If I am worshipped like a god, they will consider me a threat.”
She shook her head. “Pentadrians are not Circlians, Wi— Mirar. They do not resent other religions.”
“Only because the gods of those religions do not exist. The one religion they do resent is the Circlians’, whose gods do exist.”
She frowned and he sensed her growing anxious. He squeezed her hand.
“I never wanted to be worshipped and I still don’t. It would be better if the Dreamweavers here regarded me more like a teacher than a god. I think, between us, we can manage that.”
She looked at him and nodded. “I’ll try.”
“I know you will.” He grinned. “This is like announcing an engagement, isn’t it? Who shall we tell first?”
Tintel snorted softly. “If you don’t want to be worshipped, why are you revealing your identity?”
“I want to be among my people again,” he told her seriously. “As myself.”
She nodded, extracted her hands from his and rose. Facing the door, she took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“Then wait here. I’ll gather everyone in the hall and call you down when they’re ready.”
He smiled. “Thank you, Tintel.”
She walked to the door and opened it. Pausing to look back at him, she shook her head in wonder. Then, without saying a word, she left the room.
Mirar smiled to himself. Once they got over their surprise and awe, it would be just like the old days again. He could travel around Southern Ithania like he had once travelled around the north, meeting Dreamweavers and sharing knowledge.
And maybe this time he wouldn’t mess it all up.
Blowing out her lamp, Reivan stretched out on her bed and considered the day that had just passed. The news that the High Chieftain of Dekkar had died suddenly of a fever had rushed through the Sanctuary and stirred up Servants, ambassadors and other dignitaries as if they were leaves in a dozen whirlwinds. It left the inhabitants of the Sanctuary subdued and expectant.
One of the lesser Voices was to leave the next morning for the Dekkan city. He or she would lead the funeral rites and, once the official mourning time was over, arrange trials to select a new High Chieftain. The Trials were an old tradition. Any man or woman could enter them but, apart from a few occasions, they were always won by a man of “royal” bloodline. The entrants were tested on their strength and fitness, intelligence and knowledge, organizational and leadership skills, and dedication to the gods. Reivan assumed a mixture of privileged access to training and customising the tests to the candidates of “royal” blood explained the predictable outcome.
A flood of important personages, and those who merely thought they were important personages, had come to the Sanctuary to ask if they, or their messages of sympathy, might travel south with the Voice. All this had kept Imenja and Reivan occupied late into the night. Too late, Reivan had told herself, for any nocturnal visits by a certain First Voice. And besides, he was probably even busier than Imenja.
