Voice of the Gods

He drew magic and used it to strengthen the heart a little - enough to steady and restore its beat, but that was all. Rikken’s face regained its color and his pained expression eased. He took a few deep breaths, then nodded at Mirar gratefully.

“Thank you.”

Looking up, Mirar found a circle of Servants regarding him and Rikken curiously. Then an older male Servant stepped through the others and smiled at the merchant. He spoke rapidly in Dekkan, and Rikken muttered a surly reply. The Servant laughed, then began ordering the other Servants about.

Clearly he’s in charge around here, Mirar mused.

A chair was brought and Rikken helped into it. From the friendly manner of the old Servant and the merchant, Mirar guessed they knew each other well. He stepped back and looked around the room.

As he did, he could not help feeling a thrill of appreciation. The walls were covered in pictures made up of tiny fragments of glazed pottery, arranged so artfully that they suggested greater detail than they truly gave. The room was five-sided, each wall depicting one of the Pentadrian gods.

Sheyr, Hrun, Alor, Ranah and Sraal. Mirar had learned the names from the Dreamweavers he’d met. Unlike the Circlian gods, these preferred to keep to themselves, only appearing at momentous occasions. They let their followers run their own affairs, so long as they didn’t stray too far from the central tenets of their religion.

Which makes one wonder how the Pentadrians came to invade Northern Ithania. Did they make that decision themselves, or is waging war one of those central tenets? They do train their priests in warfare, so I suppose the latter isn’t impossible.

He frowned. If that’s true, then it doesn’t bode well for Northern Ithania’s future.

“Dreamweaver,” Yuri called.

Mirar looked up and realized the old Servant was regarding him. The man began to speak, but Yuri interrupted him apologetically. The Servant listened, then his eyebrows rose and he looked at Mirar again.

“You from Northern Ithania?” he asked in Hanian.

Mirar blinked in surprise at the man’s use of the northern language, then nodded. “Yes.”

“How long you been in Southern Ithania?”

“A few months.”

“Do you like?”

Mirar smiled. How could any visitor to another land answer that question in any way but favorably?

“Yes. Your people are welcoming and friendly.”

The priest nodded. “Dreamweavers not welcomed in north, I hear. Now it is more bad.” He looked at Rikken and smiled. “Here we are not so fools.”

“No,” Mirar agreed. More bad? Maybe I should contact Dreamweaver Elder Arleej tonight and ask if that’s true - and why.

“You do good work with this man. Thank you.”

Mirar inclined his head to acknowledge the thanks. As the priest turned to Rikken his expression became solemn. He spoke in the local tongue, then traced a star shape in the air. Rikken looked down like a chastised child and nodded with acceptance.

Taking a deep breath, Mirar let it out slowly. The Servant had been friendly and even respectful, despite knowing Mirar came from the north. Perhaps being a Dreamweaver was enough to make up for being a foreigner from an enemy land. Perhaps Servants were more sensible about these matters than ordinary Pentadrians.

Most likely there are just as many Servants inclined to be suspicious of me as ordinary Pentadrians. I’ve been lucky enough to meet one who isn’t. He smiled grimly. And the longer I stay in Southern Ithania, the better the chances I’ll encounter one who is.

2

Snow still clung to the highest peaks in Si, but everywhere else the effects of warmer weather were plain to see. The forest was a riot of new growth and flowers. In narrow valleys and on natural tiers along the sides of mountains crops were green and thriving.

The last few days had been the hottest Auraya had endured. In the past she had visited Si during the cooler months of the year. Si experienced both warmer and cooler seasons than she was used to - colder because it was mostly mountainous, warmer because it lay further south than Hania, on the same latitude as the desert land of Sennon.

Flying could provide some relief. The air high up was always chilly. But today she flew low. Her Siyee companions could not tolerate flying for long in a cold wind. The chill stiffened their muscles and taxed their strength.

She looked at the man flying beside her. Though an adult, he was half her size. His chest was broad and his legs muscular. The bones of his last three fingers made up the frame of his wings, supporting a membrane that stretched to the sides of his body. She had spent so long with Siyee now that she had to consciously make herself notice the differences between them and herself. When she did she was amazed that they had offered her, a “landwalker,” a permanent home in their country.

Not that she didn’t give them anything in return. The magical Gifts she had retained since resigning from the White were constantly in use for their benefit, most often flying and healing. She was just returning from a mission to heal a wounded girl in another Siyee village. And if not for those Gifts, many hundreds would have died from plague.

The pale stretch of exposed rock that was the Open - the main Siyee village - was visible ahead of her now. Auraya felt her heart lift. She could make out the Siyee’s homes around the edge of the exposed rock face - bowers made of membranes stretched over a flexible wooden frame fixed to the trunk of a massive tree. She could also see two familiar figures standing on the highest rockshelf, looking up toward her and her companions: Speaker Sirri, the Siyee leader, and Sreil, her son.

Auraya swooped down and landed a few strides away, her companions following. Sirri smiled.

“You’re back early,” she said. “How did it go?”

“I was able to heal her arm,” Auraya replied.

“It was incredible!” the youngest of Auraya’s companions exclaimed. “The girl flew straight after!”

Auraya grimaced. “Which I strongly warned against. I wouldn’t be surprised if that girl’s recklessness leads to worse than a broken arm in the future.”

“Her mother’s a drunkard.”

Auraya glanced in surprise at the man who’d spoken. The Speaker for the girl’s tribe had kept mostly silent until now. He met her eyes and shrugged. “We try to teach the girl some discipline, but it is not easy when her mother allows her to do anything she wants.”

Auraya thought back to the hysterical woman who had hovered over the child protectively. “Maybe that will change now.”

“I doubt it,” the man murmured. Then he shrugged. “Maybe. I should not - what is that?”

She followed his gaze and smiled as she saw a small creature bounding toward her. His pointed ears were folded back and his fluffy tail furled out behind him like a banner.

“That is a veez. His name is Mischief.”

She bent down and let the veez scurry up her arms. Mischief sniffed her, then curled up around her shoulders.

“Owaya back,” he said contentedly.

The tribe leader stared at the veez in astonishment.

“It said your name. It can speak?”

“He can, though don’t expect stirring conversation. His interests usually relate to food or grooming.” She scratched Mischief behind the ears and he proved her point by whispering: “Scratch nice.”

Sirri chuckled. “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave that to his minder again soon. A messenger arrived from the