Voice of the Gods

star pendant under his tunic and sent out a call.

:Deekan.

After a moment the Dedicated Servant that had trained Chemalya replied.

:Chemalya? What is it?

He told her what Ton had said.

:Should I close the shop and leave?

:I will seek permission.

There was a long silence in which Chemalya heard knocking on the shop door. He ignored it.

:No, Deekan’s reply came. Continue sending converts south.

:And if the White finds me?

:She will not learn any more than you know. Deekan paused. I’m sorry, Chemalya. Those are Nekaun’s orders. He must have good reason to want you there.

Chemalya sighed and tried to suppress a feeling of rising panic.

:And I will obey them, he replied.

:Good luck.

Opening his eyes, Chemalya looked around the shop. When the White found him - and he was not foolish enough to think she wouldn’t - he would go from rich trader to imprisoned enemy. He doubted prisoners survived long in Dunwayan jails.

For a moment he considered running away. But the price of survival would be to betray the gods. He would not gamble that losing one’s soul was less terrible than capture by the White.

Another knock came from the door. He sighed and hauled himself to his feet.

At least I saved a few poor souls along the way. He smiled. And mother will be proud of that.

The wide, interconnected wooden porches of Kave were crowded but quiet. People sat on reed chairs in the shade, fanning themselves. Decorated fans were the height of fashion this year. Mirar had noted some truly gaudy ones in the hands of women dressed with equal flamboyance.

The men, women and children of this wealthy district of the city fell silent as he strode past and he sensed intense curiosity. Though he still dressed in the same worn Dreamweaver clothing, somehow they always recognized him. Kave was not a large city. Just as all the houses were connected so were the people, and gossip travelled as quickly as traffic. Within a few days of revealing his true identity to Tintel and the Kave Dreamweavers, the news had spread throughout the city.

Dreamweavers were even more effectively linked. The news spread much faster by dream-links and he had been contacted by Dreamweaver Elder Arleej, in Sennon, the next night. She had demanded to know why he hadn’t warned her of his intentions.

He smiled. I like her. She’s not intimidated by me at all. Pity the local Dreamweavers can’t see that. They might get over their awe of me a little faster.

Tintel was the exception, though he still had to stop her from deferring to him on occasion. The only time he accepted it was at times like this, when she called upon him to deal with seriously ill or injured patients.

The murmur of many subdued voices reached him from somewhere ahead. Turning a corner, he saw a house and the porches around it crowded with people. They fell silent and turned to stare at him. The servant that had fetched and guided him through the city hurried across an ornately carved bridge and disappeared among the crowd.

Mirar strode after him, the people moving back as he passed. Stepping through a door into a sparsely furnished room, he stopped to take in the scene within. A boy lay on the floor, unconscious. His parents kneeled beside him, weeping and clinging to each other. Tintel stood over them. She looked up at Mirar as he entered, and beckoned.

“What happened?” he asked as he moved to the boy’s side and crouched down.

“A fall,” Tintel said. “His spine is broken and his ribs and skull are cracked.”

“They laid bets on who could leap across the gap,” the mother said in a small voice. “He didn’t make it.”

Mirar guessed the gap was the space between the house and a neighbor’s. Yet another foolish game between boys. He laid a hand on the boy’s throat and sent his mind into the young body. Tintel’s assessment was right, but didn’t describe the full damage. Organs had been torn and bruised and the boy was bleeding internally. He was fortunate he was not already dead.

Drawing magic, Mirar set to work.

He lost himself in the binding of flesh and bone. Time ceased to matter. It was good to be able to do this without pretending to take longer, and use more effort. As the restoration drew close to finishing he began to catch flashes of memory from the boy’s mind. He saw a familiar story forming. The wager had been an imitation of the father’s many bets, as well as an attempt to gain money, spurred by the recent selling of the family’s furniture to meet debts.

Completely healing an injury caused by foolishness sometimes did more harm than good. He had seen people, convinced they could recover from any injury, court danger over and over again until they harmed themselves once more, or worse.

In this case, the parents would benefit as much from the boy spending a few weeks healing as the boy would. Who says we Dreamweavers don’t make judgments? Mirar thought. He felt a quiet amusement. I did.

But no ordinary Dreamweaver could do what he had just done. They didn’t have to face the consequences of perfect healing. He left the boy with enough bruising and soreness to give him cause to rethink any future wagers, then drew his mind away.

As Mirar leaned back the boy’s mother called her son’s name. The boy’s eyes opened and he began to grumble about his hurts. Mirar advised rest and gentle exercise. He accepted the parents’ grateful thanks, but when the father offered money Mirar gave the man a direct stare. The father flushed and looked away.

It was dark outside when he and Tintel walked back to the Dreamweaver House. The porches and bridges were alight with lamps, turning Kave into a glittering, suspended city. Tintel said nothing and he sensed she was not bothered by his silence. She was content.

And me? He considered. I am not unhappy. Abruptly he thought of Auraya and felt a small pang of sadness. No point mourning what could have been. Besides, I caused her enough grief by simply being someone I wasn’t, even if I didn’t mean to.

Now he was himself again. Completely. As they arrived at the Dreamweaver House he stepped forward to open the door for Tintel. She smiled crookedly at his manners.

“Thank you. Smells like we’re just in time for dinner,” she said.

The hall was full of voices and the aroma of cooking. The chatter diminished as he entered, but as he took a seat beside Tintel it returned to a normal level. Despite this, he felt the Dreamweavers’ suppressed excitement and nervousness. A particularly strong emotion of mixed fear and longing drew his attention to one side. His eyes met Dardel’s. He smiled and she quickly looked down at her plate.

She had stopped visiting his room the night she had learned who he was, too overwhelmed by the revelation that her fantasy was real to even speak to him. He had hesitated to tell her that she was still welcome in case she thought she had no choice but to accept his invitation. It was a disadvantage of reclaiming his identity that Emerahl had found immensely amusing.

The door to the House opened and a group of young Dreamweavers arrived. The room quietened again as attention shifted to the newcomers.

“I have news,” one of the young men announced. “The Trials for the new High Chieftain will begin tomorrow.”

At once the mood of the room changed to one of anticipation. Mirar had heard of the ritual for choosing a new leader, a spectacle that came once or twice in a lifetime. It seemed all Dekkans wanted to see it. Everyone turned to regard Tintel expectantly.