Voice of the Gods

The Sanctuary was not as impressive as the Temple in Jarime. There was no huge White Tower or Dome looming over all, just a wide stairway and a single-story facade of welcoming arches, then a jumble of buildings rising up the hillside behind.

Perhaps that’s the idea, Mirar mused. They don’t want to intimidate visitors; they want them to feel welcome.

The winds had not taken them as far as Genza had hoped, so they had had to travel the rest of the way in a platten. The litter that he and Genza had ridden in from the ferry port stopped and the carriers lowered it to the ground. As Genza rose, Mirar followed suit. She smiled.

“Welcome to Sanctuary, Mirar of the Dreamweavers.”

“Thank you.”

Gesturing for him to follow, she started up the stairs. They passed through one of the archways into a wide, airy hall full of black-robed Servants and ordinary people.

“This is where we greet all visitors to the Sanctuary,” Genza told him. “Servants listen to all, from the lowest beggar to the wealthy and powerful, and direct them to whoever can best meet their needs.”

Mirar noted that some of the visitors were talking boldly and confidently to the Servants. Others were tentative, waiting nervously to be approached or keeping their gaze lowered as they talked. Sensing distress, Mirar found a Servant patting the shoulder of a crying woman.

“Do you think you could find my daughter?” he heard the woman ask.

“We can only try,” the Servant replied. “Are you sure her father took her?”

“Yes. No... I...”

A laugh drew his attention to a richly dressed man crossing the hall in the company of a male Servant.

“... like to present gifts to the Elai as well. After all, they sank the ships that were...”

Elai sinking ships? He resisted the urge to look back at the man.

“This is the main courtyard,” Genza said. “From here passages lead to all areas of the Sanctuary.”

The courtyard was fringed by a veranda. He made appreciative comments as she pointed out the fountain and told him that it both helped cool the air and the noise made discussions more private. As they continued deeper into the Sanctuary he noted how the Servants paused to watch her, tracing a sign over their chest if she happened to look their way. He sensed admiration and respect - even adoration - from them.

He also sensed curiosity directed toward himself and wondered how much they knew about him. Were they curious because Dreamweavers weren’t often seen in the Sanctuary? Did they wonder if he was the legendary, immortal founder of the Dreamweavers, or did they already know who he was, having been told Genza was bringing him here?

Genza guided him along corridors and through courtyards, climbing ever upward. Occasionally he glimpsed the city from a window or balcony, and each time the view was more impressive. As they continued further into the Sanctuary Mirar felt a nagging uneasiness.

I’m completely at a disadvantage here, he mused. The Voices may be more powerful than me. Even if not individually, they would be if united. They’re surrounded by hundreds, maybe thousands, of mortal sorcerers willing to do their bidding.

I expected that. What I didn’t expect was that this place would be such a maze. Without Genza I’d be completely lost.

Yet he did not feel in danger here. The noises of the city were distant, he sensed no threatening emotions from the Servants he passed, and the sprawling design of the Sanctuary, with its many courtyards and corridors open to the air, suggested a place of relaxation and tranquillity. Still, this was also a place of political and magical strength, and he did not let the subtle magical barrier about himself fall.

At last Genza stepped out of a corridor onto a long, wide balcony occupied by several men and women sitting in reed chairs. All looked up at him, their gazes bright with interest.

“This is Mirar, leader of the Dreamweavers,” Genza told them. She glanced at him. “Dreamweaver Mirar, this is Second Voice Imenja.”

The woman she gestured to was tall and slim. It was hard to guess her physical age.

This was the one who faltered during the last war, allowing Auraya to kill Kuar, he thought.

She smiled politely. “I am pleased to meet you at last. Genza has found much to praise about you.”

Mirar inclined his head. “A pleasure to meet you, too, Second Voice.”

“This is Third Voice Vervel,” Genza continued, waving at a man with a robust build.

I remember him from the war, but I know nothing about him. I’ll have to fix that.

“This is Fifth Voice Shar.”

The slim, handsome young man with the blond hair smiled, and Mirar nodded in reply.

He’s the one who breeds the vorn. The one the southern Dreamweavers say can be cruel.

Genza then introduced the others. They were “Companions” and their roles were as assistants and advisers to the Voices. The Twins and Auraya had already told him about them.

“Join us, Dreamweaver Mirar,” Second Voice Imenja invited, gesturing to an empty chair.

Mirar sat down and accepted a glass of water from one of the Companions.

“We have been discussing, of all things, war,” Imenja told him.

“Any particular war?” he asked.

She shook her head. “All wars. Warfare as a subject. Dreamweavers do not fight wars, do they?”

“No. We acknowledge the need for a person or country to defend themselves, but our vow to never do harm prevents us from fighting ourselves.”

“So you don’t approve of our invasion of Northern Ithania, but would approve of us defending ourselves if we were invaded?” Imenja asked.

He nodded.

“Yet your people don’t help in the defense of their country.”

“We do only by healing the wounded.”

“You heal the wounded of both sides.”

“Yes. My people honor their vows to heal all those in need as much as their loyalty to their homeland, knowing that Dreamweavers everywhere would do the same.”

“I see.”

“Surely this causes conflicts between Dreamweavers and the people of their land?” the woman’s Companion asked. “Don’t people resent Dreamweavers for helping the enemy?”

“Of course.” Mirar smiled. “As often as someone may be grateful to a Dreamweaver of their enemy’s land for saving one of their own.”

“The White and Circlians have caused your people great harm,” Vervel said. “Would your people fight them?”

Mirar shook his head. “No.”

“Not to escape oppression? Not for the freedom to follow your own ways?”

“Not even if we thought either was possible. We might kill all of the White, but the gods would soon find replacements.”

“So you believe the Circlian gods are real?” Imenja asked.

Mirar smiled ruefully. “I know it. A reliable source of mine assures me yours are too.”

The Voices looked at each other, each glance swift and meaningful.

“If we defeated the White,” Vervel said. “If all Circlians became Pentadrians, the Circlian gods would not find anyone willing to take the place of the White.”

“Ah, if only that were true!” Mirar sighed. “Unfortunately it would require every single Circlian to willingly reject their gods and convert to yours.”

“They might, in time,” Shar said. “Of course, there would be followers of the Circle meeting in secret, rebels and such. We would have to hunt them down and—”

“The point is, with us in control, your people would be free to live as they pleased,” Vervel interrupted.