Voice of the Gods

reveal patches of blue. Despite the rain it was still warm.

Though it was barely past dawn there was a smell of baking bread coming from the kitchen and Tintel was already in the hall, delicately slicing and eating fruit. She looked up at him and nodded in greeting. As he sat down in the hall to eat, the sound of heavy rain suddenly resumed.

“Not a pleasant day for the Trials,” Tintel said, joining him at the table. “I’d have thought the gods would arrange better.”

“I guess that depends on their own interpretation of the word ‘trial.’ ”

She chuckled. “Yes, I guess it does. Would you like me to accompany you today?”

He smiled and shook his head. “No - but thank you for offering.”

She nodded. He could sense her anxiety, though he could not tell if it were for his safety or that of all Dreamweavers - or both. If this meeting between him and Fourth Voice Genza went badly, would it affect the good relationship between Southern Ithanian Dreamweavers and Pentadrians?

I will just have to ensure it does not go badly, Mirar told himself.

A knock came from the main entrance. Tintel rose to answer it and returned with a man and a teenage boy. Both wore ribbons of blue and white sewn all over clothing of the same colors, but neither looked as cheerful as their costume. The boy was supported by the older man, hopping in order to avoid putting weight on one leg.

Tintel called to one of the Dreamweavers in the kitchen, who emerged, took one look at the colorful pair, and led them away. Tintel returned to her seat.

“We’ll be seeing plenty of broken bones and twisted ankles today,” she said.

Mirar looked at her questioningly.

“Wet platforms can be dangerously slippery,” she explained. “During an exciting public event, people - particularly young people - have a habit of rushing about carelessly. Ah. Here’s your escort.”

Mirar turned to see a middle-aged woman dressed in Servant robes standing on the threshold of the room. The woman was red-faced and sweating. As Mirar rose, her gaze slid to his.

“You are Mirar, founder of the Dreamweavers?” she asked.

“I am,” he replied.

Her eyebrows rose. “I am Servant Minga. I am to take you to meet Fourth Voice Genza.”

Mirar turned to Tintel. “Good luck.”

“You too,” she replied quietly. “Watch your step out there today.”

He smiled, sure that she was not referring to wet platforms, and walked over to greet the Servant. The woman was short but her bearing was proud. She was used to being respected and obeyed, Mirar guessed.

He gestured to the door. “Please lead the way.”

She nodded to Tintel before turning away. Mirar couldn’t help marvelling at the little gesture of respect. A Circlian priestess would never have done such a thing.

I could really come to love this country.

They stepped outside into fat, soaking drops of rain, and Mirar’s enthusiasm was quickly dampened! He drew a little magic and shielded them both, earning a small smile of gratitude from his guide. Despite the rain it didn’t seem much cooler, but the upper level of Kave was gleaming with moisture and smelled of wet timber.

They walked slowly, making their way from platform to platform. Dekkans lounged in chairs under wide verandas, fanning themselves. They smiled and nodded as Mirar passed, and he took that to be a good sign. If the people of Dekkar liked him being here perhaps the Voices would, too.

After a few minutes, however, he heard the patter of several footsteps behind him and his heart sank as he imagined a mob of supporters following him to the Hall of Chieftains. That would only give the Voice the impression he had a strong influence over them - which she could hardly be expected to like.

He stopped and looked over his shoulder, then smothered a laugh. The crowd was a group of children, their eyes wide with curiosity. They grinned at him.

“Hello,” he said. “Why are you following me?”

“We like you,” a boy said.

“You healed Pinpin,” a girl told him.

“And Mimi.”

“And Doridori’s mother.”

“Are you going to the Trials?”

He nodded.

“We are too!” The children cheered, then as one they ran away, their feet pounding on the boards. Smiling, Mirar turned to find the Servant regarding him curiously. He shrugged and they continued on their way.

As they crossed a bridge Mirar caught a movement below and looked down. Tiny temporary shelters had been constructed on the ground below the platforms, on either side of a creek. He caught the smell of refuse and sewage. This was where the poorer residents of Kave lived, gathering what the affluent ones discarded. Those above complained about the smell from below, yet if the poor didn’t gather the garbage dropped from above and keep the creeks flowing freely the whole city would have smelled far worse.

Tintel had told Mirar that the poor lashed the walls of their shelters together to form rafts when the floods came. They tethered these to trees or platforms to prevent them being washed out to sea. Pentadrians had condemned to slavery three rich young men who had loosed several rafts as a prank the year before. A few of the families had been rescued by ships and had identified the men, but most were never found.

The closer they came to the Hall of the Chieftains, the more crowded the porches of Kave became. Everyone wore bright clothing decorated with ribbons or flowers. More blossoms bedecked the houses and platforms, though those unprotected from the rain were drooping with moisture.

The rain ended suddenly, but water continued to drip from rooftops. Sometimes the crowd was so thick the Servant had to clear her throat or ask loftily that people stand aside. At last the Hall of the Chieftains came in sight. Like Kave’s Sanctuary, it was made of stone. It was a squat pyramid of three levels, rising up from the muddy ground below. The sloped sides were of enormous staggered stone bricks, like an oversized staircase. In the center of the structure was a section of normal-sized stairs leading to the topmost level. A visitor must literally climb the walls to get there.

A pavilion had been erected on the first level. Several men and a few women sat on reed chairs beneath this. Servants stirred the air in the room with large fans. Their efforts were directed mainly at a dark-skinned woman in black robes sitting on a reed couch at the center of the pavilion.

Mirar’s guide led him across the bridge. She stopped by one of the corner poles of the pavilion and he waited beside her. The dark-skinned woman was talking to one of her companions. As he finished she looked up at Mirar and smiled, then rose and walked forward to meet him.

She’s tall, he noted. And she walks with the grace of someone who is fit. But she is lean rather than muscular, and her face is quite beautiful.

“I am Genza, Fourth Voice of the Gods,” she said in Dekkan. “You are Mirar, immortal leader of the Dreamweavers?”

“I am,” he replied. He felt a small shiver of apprehension at admitting to his identity so freely after all the years of hiding. “Though I am only their founder and teacher, not their leader,” he added.

Genza nodded once at the guide, who walked away. “Please join me,” she said to him, gesturing to the couch.

He sat down beside her, aware that sharing her couch was probably a great honor. Genza introduced him to the other men and women. Most were patriarchs and matriarchs of Kave’s wealthier families - Mirar had met a few during healing visits. Others included the local Dedicated Servants, war chiefs, and ambassadors from Avven and Mur.

“And here are our candidates.”

All turned to the front of the pavilion. Four men and one woman, all dressed in colorful clothing, stood before them. All traced a star in the air before Genza. The Voice rose and greeted each in turn, wishing them luck.

The first was a man in his late thirties, with a little gray showing in his hair. He gave an impression of maintained fitness and health, and his gaze was sharp.

Next came a younger man with broad shoulders and the muscular body of active youth. His eyes kept moving to someone behind Mirar and he appeared to be struggling not to grin.

Beside him stood another young man. This one was thin and serious. He did not have the fitness of the first