Voice of the Gods

area was little used. The floor dipped slightly at the center, inferring wear over many centuries, perhaps millennia. Intrigued, Auraya looked for other signs that might indicate what this part of the Sanctuary had once been used for.

Nekaun led her through a gate into a passage. They passed a few alcoves, each holding a lamp. At the end they came to a small room. An iron gate filled a large archway, two Servants standing guard on either side. Beyond was a much larger hall filled with columns. At the far end was a chair of enormous size.

It’s an old temple, she thought. That is the throne of a god. A dead god, most likely.

Then a movement drew her attention to the base of a column and she felt her heart sink.

Siyee were chained to the columns. They sat or crouched on the floor, their thoughts despondent and fearful. Wooden bowls had been set by each Siyee for their excrement, and she could smell the stench of it.

“You said your people would provide sanitation,” she said, turning to face Nekaun. “This isn’t healthy.”

Nekaun’s eyebrows rose. “They are prisoners. You can’t expect me to treat them like honored guests.”

She thought of the rooms he had presented to her. “I don’t,” she said. “But I do expect them to be healthy enough to return home when they are freed. They will sicken like this. They must be allowed to exercise or their wing muscles will grow too weak for flying.”

He looked at the Siyee and nodded slowly. “I understand. Once I am sure this hall is secure, I will have them unchained from the columns. An area will be set aside for the collection of excrement.” He spoke to the Servants. One drew a key from beneath his robes then moved to the gate and unlocked it.

Auraya strode inside. The Siyee looked up as she approached, their faces and thoughts full of hope. She searched for Sreil. Finding him, she walked over and crouched beside him.

“Are any of you hurt?”

The young man shook his head. “Scratches, sprains, but nothing more.”

She looked around at the hopeful faces. “I’m not here to free you,” she told them. “At least not today. But I have come to an arrangement with Nekaun, the leader of the Pentadrians. Every day I remain here he will set one of you free.”

“There are over thirty of us,” one of the Siyee said. “That’s a whole month. We won’t be able to fly if we stay like this for a week.”

“I have explained that to him,” she told him. “He has agreed to unchain you.”

“Do you trust him?” Sreil asked.

She looked at him and sighed. “I have to. He swore on his gods. If that doesn’t keep him honest, nothing will.”

“What does he want from you?” the priest asked.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “He says to stay here and meet his people.”

“He will try to corrupt you. Turn you from the gods,” Teel warned.

“No doubt,” she agreed. “Tomorrow morning we will see if he keeps to his word. I will insist on watching him free one of you.”

Among their doubts and hopes was a concern for herself and gratitude for the risk she was taking for them. She could not help feeling a surge of affection for them. If Nekaun had not been watching and listening, she would have moved among them, talking to and reassuring each, but she did not want him to see how much she valued them or his demands in return for their safety might increase. Standing up, she managed a smile.

“Be strong and patient,” she told them. “I’ll be thinking of you all every moment.”

“And we of you,” Sreil said.

Turning away reluctantly, she forced herself to stride back to the gate. Stepping outside, she turned to face Nekaun.

“If any of them are unable to fly from the Sanctuary, our deal is finished.”

He smiled and nodded. “Of course. I will see that they are made more comfortable.”

The Palace library closed in the evenings for all but the “members,” which usually gave the Thinkers all the privacy they needed while discussing their progress in the search for the Gods’ Scroll.

Or lack of progress, Raynora thought. I wonder how many other clues my companions have overlooked or dismissed because they didn’t like the gender or the race of the one who supplied it? Has their jealousy of all with magical Skills driven them to ignore important information too?

He felt a familiar twinge of envy and smiled wryly. All Thinkers coveted magical power, even himself. You always wanted what you couldn’t have. Knowing he couldn’t become a Servant had made him all the more fascinated by them. He’d wanted to be one once, but when a Thinker was ordained in the aftermath of the war he found his interest waning. He couldn’t hope for a role as prestigious as Companion, and the humble life of an ordinary Servant didn’t appeal so much when there still wasn’t magic involved.

Whereas being a Thinker does gain me some respect from others, and I don’t have to give up my assets, small though they may be.

Having come to that conclusion, Ray had found his interest in the Scroll of the Gods diminishing as well. It had been part of his fascination with religion, but now that was gone he was finding the unpleasant personalities of the principal searchers wearing. Barmonia was the driving force of the group, but his arrogance irritated Ray. Mikmer’s cynicism was no longer amusing, and gods help you if you got Kereon started on one of his favorite subjects. The only Thinker close to Ray’s age was Yathyir, but Ray secretly suspected the Dekkan’s parents had made a pact with the gods - to give their son a genius for remembering facts - however, to make room the gods had removed any ability to understand social norms, jokes and subtleties of conversation.

So why am I still here? Well, I was made an offer too good to refuse...

“What are you smiling about, Ray?”

He turned to find Mikmer regarding him suspiciously and felt a pang of guilt. To compensate, Ray grinned even wider. “I was just calculating how much gold the Scroll will bring me when I sell it.”

The others turned to stare at him.

“We are not going to sell the Scroll!” Barmonia declared, his face beginning to turn red already.

“Oh, I don’t imagine you would,” Ray agreed. “But I’m sure you’ll pay a lot to get it off me.”

Yathyir smiled. “He means to find it himself.”

Barmonia’s eyebrows rose. “You think you can do so without our help, do you?”

“Maybe,” Ray replied, lounging in his chair with deliberate nonchalance. “If I can persuade that woman to help me after you all treated her so rudely the other day.”

“That northerner woman!” Barmonia huffed. “You’re welcome to her. All you’ll get from her is scabs.”

“Because all northern women are diseased, are they?”

The big man stared back at him. “No moral woman travels on her own.”

“No moral unSkilled woman, anyway,” Mikmer said quietly.

“She’s Skilled?” Yathyir asked, turning to look at Mikmer. “How do you know?”

The older man’s shoulders lifted slightly. “An educated guess.”

“But you don’t know for sure?” Yathyir asked.

Mikmer rolled his eyes. He was not the most patient of men, especially when it came to Yathyir’s literal way of thinking. “Of course not. Did she use magic while she was here? No. Is it likely I went out and found her and asked her to demonstrate, and she agreed to? No.”

“Oh,” Yathyir replied, looking thoughtful. Fortunately he never took exception to Mikmer’s sarcasm. He accepted it as the normal behavior of an older, more experienced Thinker.

“You think we should use this woman?” Kereon asked Ray.

All turned to regard the man. Kereon rarely spoke unless he felt he had something worthwhile to say, but when he did he could drone on for hours.

“I do,” Ray replied. “She read the tablet as if it was her own language, and hinted that she can read ancient Sorl.”