Voice of the Gods

The jungle stretched out before them, only broken by the river, which twisted and turned upon itself several times. The view improved as they rose. He realized he could see the sea in the distance. This is what Auraya sees when she flies, he thought suddenly. He felt an unexpected pang of envy. Emerahl failed to learn to fly, but that doesn’t mean I would. I wonder if I’ll ever get a chance to ask Auraya to teach me. And if she’d agree to. I taught her to heal. She owes me something in return...

“What do you think of this little contraption?” Genza asked.

Mirar turned to regard her. “Impressive. Have there been many accidents?”

“A few.” She shrugged. “Mostly due to the foolishness of passengers. The rope is replaced every year, and tested carefully for flaws.” Looking out at the view, she gave a little sigh. “I never tire of this, no matter how many times I see it.”

Mirar gazed out at the view again. It truly was spectacular. Too soon the box slowed and then jerked to a halt. It had drawn level with a platform built out from the side of the cliff, surrounded by a railing. Mirar followed Genza out of the box and into another small village.

This place was as sprawling as Bottom had been compact. A broad street ran between widely spaced clay houses. Everything appeared to be the same bleached sand color - even the clothes of the locals - though that might have been the effect of the bright sun. It was both hotter and drier and the relentless sound of insects and birdsong had been replaced by the constant whine of wind.

“This is Top,” Genza said. “I know, not very imaginative names.”

The boxes and chests from the barge were being loaded onto a tarn, while two platten waited nearby to carry the Servants. Genza checked that all was arranged as she wished, then bade the Servants a good journey. Mirar looked at her questioningly. She smiled.

“We’ll go on alone from here. It’ll be much faster.”

“How?”

Her smile widened. “By windboat. Follow me.”

She strode through the village. At the edge Mirar saw a flat, featureless desert extending to the horizon. Genza led him to one of several windowless, two-story stone buildings at the village edge, and through a door. The interior was dark after the bright sunlight. As Mirar’s eyes adjusted he realized there was no ceiling above him. The building was hollow. To one side there were several large wooden doors. One was open, allowing in enough light to reveal the strange contraptions within.

Boats. Strange narrow boats with oversized sails. Mirar gazed around the room at the different vessels. All had flat, narrow wooden hulls and pale sails bound tightly to graceful masts. Genza looked up at him and grinned.

“You’ll like this.” She turned away as a middle-aged local man hurried toward her. He ushered them outside.

“The two windsailors over there are waiting for you,” he said, pointing at two figures in the distance standing beside two of the strange boats.

“I will not need a sailor,” she said, “but my companion will. Are the winds favorable?”

The man nodded. “If they keep up, they might take you all the way to Glymma.”

She thanked him and strode toward the distant figures. Mirar followed.

“Can they really take us all the way to Glymma?”

“So long as the wind holds,” she said. “We should be there in four days.”

Four days? Mirar shook his head. Now I know why she didn’t bother sailing around the coast. A ship would never have made it to Dekkar and back as quickly.

The figures were two young men. As Genza approached they smiled and made the sign of the star. She examined the windboats, then chose one. The sailor let go of it reluctantly. Mirar guessed that boats belonged to and were maintained by their sailors, and wondered how the young man would get his vessel back.

A gust of wind battered them, and the remaining windsailor was clearly straining to hold his boat still. When it had passed, Genza pointed to the front of the hull.

“You sit there, face forward,” she explained. “Don’t move. It takes balance as much as windsense and magic to sail these.”

Sitting down, Mirar placed his bag between his knees. He looked back to see that the windsailor had wound a scarf about his face and was now sitting at the stern. Genza settled in the same part of her adopted windboat and as another gust of wind rushed around them the sail unfurled and she shot forward.

As the boat beneath Mirar tilted, he grabbed hold of the edges. He heard the young man speak, his voice muffled. Glancing over his shoulder he saw the man pointing to the hull. He looked down and saw handholds. There were also two hollows for him to wedge his heels into. As he took advantage of both the young man made an undulating cry and the boat began to move.

It did not fly forward as Genza’s had, but slowly gained momentum. Mirar looked up to see that the sailor was unfurling the sail slowly.

They gathered speed. The boat slid away from the village. Mirar felt the wind gust against him from one side. Another cry came from behind him and he heard a snap of fabric as the sail unfurled completely. The boat turned abruptly and shot across the sand.

It was exhilarating. Mirar found himself whooping along with the windsailor. They scooted toward an unchanging horizon. But soon the sailor quietened, though the speed of the vessel didn’t diminish. The occasional crosswind blew dust into the side of Mirar’s face. The air was dry, and the sun beating down on them was hot and relentless.

Hours passed. Eventually they reached a stretch of shallow dunes. Gusts of wind began to buffet them from the side. Mirar felt every movement of the sailor as he fought the crosswinds. He felt a growing respect for the skill of the young man.

Then he remembered Genza and searched the sands ahead of them. There was no sign of her. But her boat carried only one passenger, so it was bound to go faster than his. He probably wouldn’t see her again for hours - probably not until they stopped for the night.

A spray of sand and a gleeful yell told him otherwise. Genza shot past them, laughing. Mirar could not help chuckling as she deftly sent her boat leaping off the crests of dunes and skimmed down their sides, showing skill probably gained over many more years than a mortal could ever hope to dedicate to the art.

If Genza is an example, these Voices are a lot better at having fun than the White, he thought.

Then he sobered. It was so easy to admire Genza in this place and at this moment. But this was the same woman who bred and trained birds to kill mortals, who waged war and ruled, along with her fellow Voices, an entire continent.

I will remember this side of her, he told himself, but I will not be charmed out of good sense and caution.

Though he pretended indifference, Barmonia never failed to be impressed by the ruins of Sorlina.

The high escarpment wall that had cast its shadow over them during the previous afternoons had collapsed here, and on the broken ruins of it a city had been built. The collapse had formed a natural, though steep, access point from the highlands of Avven to the lowlands of Mur, and while it was no surprise that a city had reaped the benefits of that in the past it was strange that none thrived here now.

The foreign woman had stared up at the city all the morning, stupefied by amazement. At one point, during a crossing of the river, she had said something to Raynora about there being too little water in it to sustain a city. Mikmer had put her in her place by pointing out it was the dry season, so of course there was little water.

She had looked at Mikmer with that amused, almost pitying way, but said nothing. Of course, if a city couldn’t sustain itself all year round it was bound to diminish and die anyway, but Barmonia hadn’t been about to shame Mikmer by pointing that out.

The old road zigzagged up the slope. It had once been smoothly paved, but the ground had shifted and the surface was broken in places. For this reason they had left the vehicles behind and now rode the arem that had pulled them, leading those carrying tents and supplies.