The rosy light of dawn tinted the sky beyond Reivan’s window when she woke. She felt a mingled relief and disappointment. Relief that she hadn’t slept late again, but disappointment that she didn’t have cause to.
Rising, she went to the basin of water and washed herself down. The moisture on her skin was pleasantly cool, but dried quickly. Soon she would be sweating in the heat of another midsummer day, but at least she would stink of fresh sweat rather than stale. She wished she could say the same of the merchants and courtiers that she had to deal with.
Dressing in her robe, she left her rooms and started for her office, pausing only to tell a domestic to have food brought to her. Several Servants were about. They nodded respectfully at Reivan as she passed.
Suddenly her sandal loosened and nearly tripped her. She stopped and steadied herself with one hand on a wall while she inspected it. A strap had come apart from the sole.
“…why he chose her. She’s not beautiful, or even pretty,” a voice said.
Realizing that the voice belonged to one of two female Servants she had just passed, she paused to listen.
“She’s supposed to be smart. Former Thinker, they say. Maybe they play mind games while they’re…you know.”
“I don’t want to think about it.”
Reivan found herself smiling. So the other Servants had heard about Nekaun’s nocturnal visits to her rooms. Were these two jealous?
“From what I hear, his attention is hard to keep. He gets bored easily.”
“She’s wise to keep it quiet, then. It’ll be humiliating enough when he moves on. Wouldn’t want the whole Sanctuary to know, if I were her.”
“The whole Sanctuary does know.”
Reivan felt her stomach sink. She drew off the sandal and took a few steps, no longer wanting to eavesdrop. But with only one sandal, walking was awkward and ungainly. She stopped to take off the other.
“…rather have him for a little while than never,” one of the Servants said.
“Me, too.”
That ought to have cheered her, but it didn’t. Her stomach sank further. He’s been visiting me for months now, she thought. If he was only doing it for entertainment, surely he would have grown bored after a few nights? I’m not exactly a goddess of the bedroom.
Days. Weeks. Months. Years. What did it matter? He was immortal, powerful and beautiful. She knew she could not expect to hold his attention forever, yet she could not imagine life being any different than how it was now. Sometimes she struggled to comprehend how she had existed before.
I’ve never been this happy. Or this anxious. I must be in love.
With sandals in one hand, she continued on. When the next domestic appeared she stopped him, gave him the sandals and told him to arrange for someone to bring her a new pair. He made the sign of the star and hurried away.
Though she tried to turn her thoughts to the work ahead, the words of the Servants kept creeping into her mind.
“He gets bored easily.”
Maybe Nekaun was growing bored with her. He hadn’t visited last night and the previous evening his visit had been brief.
Too brief, she thought. He seemed distracted, as if his mind was elsewhere and only his body was present.
“Companion Reivan.”
She stopped and turned, surprised to see Imenja striding toward her.
“Second Voice,” she replied, making the sign of the star.
Imenja smiled. “Come with me. I want to ask you something.
They were only a short distance from Reivan’s office, yet Imenja walked to a stairwell and began to climb. Reivan followed, conscious that her feet were still bare.
They climbed up into one of the towers in the lower levels of the Sanctuary. The stairs led through a hole in the floor of the topmost room. Open arches gave a view all around.
Imenja moved to the side facing the city.
“We shouldn’t be overheard here,” she murmured. She turned to face Reivan. “Nekaun left early this morning.”
“Left?” Reivan repeated. “To go where?”
“I don’t know,” Imenja replied. “Nobody does. I was hoping you would.”
Reivan shook her head. “I haven’t seen him since the night before last.”
The Second Voice smiled and turned to regard the view.
“Well then. He’s gone and left us all wondering.”
“The other Voices?”
Imenja shook her head. “They’re just as perplexed as I am.”
Reivan looked away. “He was a bit distracted the night before last.” As she said it, she felt her face warming. “He didn’t tell me he was planning to leave.” She felt a stab of hurt. Surely he could have confided in her. Didn’t he know he could trust her?
But he couldn’t tell her anything he didn’t want the other Voices to read from her mind.
Imenja sighed. “I guess we’ll find out what this is about when he’s ready to tell us.” She shrugged and moved away from the arches. “I have to go, but I’ll see you this afternoon.”
“Yes.” Reivan managed a smile. “Hopefully I won’t have too many matters to bother you with.”
Imenja’s nose wrinkled. “I think that’s what annoys me most. He’s off having some adventure while we’re stuck here doing the boring work.” She started to descend the stairs.
When she had gone, Reivan looked out over the city.
So he’s left, she thought. He could have left me a message. Even a cryptic one. Just…something.
And nobody knows how long he’ll be gone. She felt a pang of longing and fear. That’s just what having a Voice as a lover entails, she told herself. There’ll always be secrets and mysteries. Unexplained disappearances.
Distracted lovemaking.
She sighed and turned away from the view. Nothing but the return of Nekaun was going to make her feel better, so she may as well lose herself in work.
Spice Merchant Chem, also known as Servant Chemalya, counted up the tally on his clay tablet and marked in the total. Sitting back in his chair, he smiled. Business was good. Dunwayans had taken to the hotter spices of his homeland like all competitive, pain-loving warriors should. His spiced version of the local brew, fwa, had brought him profits far higher than his expectations. Every day the door of his shop squeaked continually with clan servants come to buy more wares.
It had taken a while for the Dunwayans to take to the spices. Chemalya had made no secret of the fact they were from Southern Ithania. That made them “Pentadrian” goods, which gave them the taint of the enemy. It was said Dunwayan warriors loved their god, Lore, more than their own fathers. This was not surprising, since the god had apparently arranged for every aspect of Dunwayan life to favor them. They would not touch anything associated with the enemy.
At least, they didn’t at first. Then the allure of exotic goods with dangerous associations brought the first customers. The heat of the spices took those first young Dunwayans by surprise. Soon they were daring their friends to try it. When one spiked a mug of fwa with the spice, they discovered that the two substances complemented each other perfectly.
So Chemalya began selling pre-spiced fwa. It gained popularity so quickly he began to run out of spice. He ordered more and raised his prices. When two servants had bid on the last jar of his first shipment, the loser had looked so dismayed at his defeat Chemalya had offered the man a consolatory drink. Soon he was regaled with tales of the brutal treatment of servants.
Listening patiently, he realized his secret task was going to be easier than he had first thought. His future converts were all around him, and their masters had prepared them for their new faith better than any Pentadrian could have.
He had sent the servant away with a small jar of spice he’d been keeping for himself in the hope this would fend off the beating the man was expecting. From then on, he was generous to all the servants who came to buy wares. He told them the tale of half-truths that had allowed him to set up shop in Dunway—that his mother had been a Dunwayan servant woman who had run away to Sennon (true) and married a Murian trader (false—she’d become a whore), who had employed their son as an assistant (delivery boy). Taking over the business when the Murian died (true—but it had been arranged by the Pentadrians), Chemalya had come to Dunway out of a curiosity to see his mother’s homeland (false—his mother’s hatred for her people had killed all curiosity years ago).
To his surprise, he had enjoyed his time in Dunway so far. Not all warriors were cruel and stupid. Some treated their servants as if they were family. There was a tradition of poetry of surprising beauty and their honest and open attitude toward physical lust was refreshing compared to the coyness and embarrassment of Southern Ithanians.
He wasn’t going to be as glad to leave as he’d thought he’d be, and now that one of the White was here he was expecting that moment to arrive any day now. The thought filled him with sadness and a little resentment.
He looked down at the tablet.
Maybe that’s more to do with the profit I’m making. At times like these I have to remind myself that I’m here to serve the gods. Riches will not get me a place with them, when my soul is released from my body.
The door creaked. Chemalya looked up and smiled as he saw it was one of his latest recruits: Ton, a servant of the Nimler clan. It would not be long before he helped this one “escape” to the south.
Chemalya put his tablet under the bench, out of sight. Ton stepped forward hesitantly, wringing his hands.
“That arrangement you talked about,” the man said, his voice quivering. “Can it happen today?”
Surprised, Chemalya looked at the man closely. Ton always looked a little strained and anxious. Had he finally been pushed too far by his master, or was it something more serious?
“It can,” Chemalya told the man. “What has happened?”
“The White. She was at dinner last night. Said there were spies in the household and that Gim should set a trap.” He reached across the bench and gripped Chemalya’s arm. “If I go back he’ll find me. He’ll kill me. I have to go.”
Chemalya patted the man’s shoulder. “And you will. What did you come here for, and what else are you buying today?”
“Spiced fwa. Grain. Oil.” The man let go of Chemalya’s arm and drew a pouch of coins out of his shirt.
“Good. Tell me the names of the shops and I’ll send someone to meet you. He will take you out of the city.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. My friends and I took the precaution of knowing only as much as we needed, in case our minds were read. You have to trust me.”
Ton nodded and shrugged. “It’s a risk. I have to take it.”
“You will be the last for a while,” Chemalya told him.
The man looked stricken. “But…my wife and children? You said they—”
“Will escape later. They will, once the White has left and we can set things up again.” He paused. “I may need your help with that.”
Ton straightened. “You’ll have it.”
“Thank you. Now you had better tell me which shops you plan to visit.”
After Ton had left, Chemalya called one of the street boys into the shop and paid him a coin to deliver an order for five and a half barrels of fwa. He scratched Ton’s name and the shops he planned to visit onto a scrap of parchment and gave it to the boy.
Then he locked the shop door and sat down behind the bench. Closing his eyes, he pressed a hand to the star pendant under his tunic and sent out a call.
:Deekan.
After a moment the Dedicated Servant that had trained Chemalya replied.
:Chemalya? What is it?
He told her what Ton had said.
:Should I close the shop and leave?
:I will seek permission.
There was a long silence in which Chemalya heard knocking on the shop door. He ignored it.
:No, Deekan’s reply came. Continue sending converts south.
:And if the White finds me?
:She will not learn any more than you know. Deekan paused. I’m sorry, Chemalya. Those are Nekaun’s orders. He must have good reason to want you there.
Chemalya sighed and tried to suppress a feeling of rising panic.
:And I will obey them, he replied.
:Good luck.
Opening his eyes, Chemalya looked around the shop. When the White found him—and he was not foolish enough to think she wouldn’t—he would go from rich trader to imprisoned enemy. He doubted prisoners survived long in Dunwayan jails.
For a moment he considered running away. But the price of survival would be to betray the gods. He would not gamble that losing one’s soul was less terrible than capture by the White.
Another knock came from the door. He sighed and hauled himself to his feet.
At least I saved a few poor souls along the way. He smiled. And mother will be proud of that.
The wide, interconnected wooden porches of Kave were crowded but quiet. People sat on reed chairs in the shade, fanning themselves. Decorated fans were the height of fashion this year. Mirar had noted some truly gaudy ones in the hands of women dressed with equal flamboyance.
The men, women and children of this wealthy district of the city fell silent as he strode past and he sensed intense curiosity. Though he still dressed in the same worn Dreamweaver clothing, somehow they always recognized him. Kave was not a large city. Just as all the houses were connected so were the people, and gossip travelled as quickly as traffic. Within a few days of revealing his true identity to Tintel and the Kave Dreamweavers, the news had spread throughout the city.
Dreamweavers were even more effectively linked. The news spread much faster by dream-links and he had been contacted by Dreamweaver Elder Arleej, in Sennon, the next night. She had demanded to know why he hadn’t warned her of his intentions.
He smiled. I like her. She’s not intimidated by me at all. Pity the local Dreamweavers can’t see that. They might get over their awe of me a little faster.
Tintel was the exception, though he still had to stop her from deferring to him on occasion. The only time he accepted it was at times like this, when she called upon him to deal with seriously ill or injured patients.
The murmur of many subdued voices reached him from somewhere ahead. Turning a corner, he saw a house and the porches around it crowded with people. They fell silent and turned to stare at him. The servant that had fetched and guided him through the city hurried across an ornately carved bridge and disappeared among the crowd.
Mirar strode after him, the people moving back as he passed. Stepping through a door into a sparsely furnished room, he stopped to take in the scene within. A boy lay on the floor, unconscious. His parents kneeled beside him, weeping and clinging to each other. Tintel stood over them. She looked up at Mirar as he entered, and beckoned.
“What happened?” he asked as he moved to the boy’s side and crouched down.
“A fall,” Tintel said. “His spine is broken and his ribs and skull are cracked.”
“They laid bets on who could leap across the gap,” the mother said in a small voice. “He didn’t make it.”
Mirar guessed the gap was the space between the house and a neighbor’s. Yet another foolish game between boys. He laid a hand on the boy’s throat and sent his mind into the young body. Tintel’s assessment was right, but didn’t describe the full damage. Organs had been torn and bruised and the boy was bleeding internally. He was fortunate he was not already dead.
Drawing magic, Mirar set to work.
He lost himself in the binding of flesh and bone. Time ceased to matter. It was good to be able to do this without pretending to take longer, and use more effort. As the restoration drew close to finishing he began to catch flashes of memory from the boy’s mind. He saw a familiar story forming. The wager had been an imitation of the father’s many bets, as well as an attempt to gain money, spurred by the recent selling of the family’s furniture to meet debts.
Completely healing an injury caused by foolishness sometimes did more harm than good. He had seen people, convinced they could recover from any injury, court danger over and over again until they harmed themselves once more, or worse.
In this case, the parents would benefit as much from the boy spending a few weeks healing as the boy would. Who says we Dreamweavers don’t make judgments? Mirar thought. He felt a quiet amusement. I did.
But no ordinary Dreamweaver could do what he had just done. They didn’t have to face the consequences of perfect healing. He left the boy with enough bruising and soreness to give him cause to rethink any future wagers, then drew his mind away.
As Mirar leaned back the boy’s mother called her son’s name. The boy’s eyes opened and he began to grumble about his hurts. Mirar advised rest and gentle exercise. He accepted the parents’ grateful thanks, but when the father offered money Mirar gave the man a direct stare. The father flushed and looked away.
It was dark outside when he and Tintel walked back to the Dreamweaver House. The porches and bridges were alight with lamps, turning Kave into a glittering, suspended city. Tintel said nothing and he sensed she was not bothered by his silence. She was content.
And me? He considered. I am not unhappy. Abruptly he thought of Auraya and felt a small pang of sadness. No point mourning what could have been. Besides, I caused her enough grief by simply being someone I wasn’t, even if I didn’t mean to.
Now he was himself again. Completely. As they arrived at the Dreamweaver House he stepped forward to open the door for Tintel. She smiled crookedly at his manners.
“Thank you. Smells like we’re just in time for dinner,” she said.
The hall was full of voices and the aroma of cooking. The chatter diminished as he entered, but as he took a seat beside Tintel it returned to a normal level. Despite this, he felt the Dreamweavers’ suppressed excitement and nervousness. A particularly strong emotion of mixed fear and longing drew his attention to one side. His eyes met Dardel’s. He smiled and she quickly looked down at her plate.
She had stopped visiting his room the night she had learned who he was, too overwhelmed by the revelation that her fantasy was real to even speak to him. He had hesitated to tell her that she was still welcome in case she thought she had no choice but to accept his invitation. It was a disadvantage of reclaiming his identity that Emerahl had found immensely amusing.
The door to the House opened and a group of young Dreamweavers arrived. The room quietened again as attention shifted to the newcomers.
“I have news,” one of the young men announced. “The Trials for the new High Chieftain will begin tomorrow.”
At once the mood of the room changed to one of anticipation. Mirar had heard of the ritual for choosing a new leader, a spectacle that came once or twice in a lifetime. It seemed all Dekkans wanted to see it. Everyone turned to regard Tintel expectantly.
Good, Mirar thought. They’re looking to her for leadership at last.
“I wouldn’t dream of stopping anyone from attending,” Tintel said, rolling her eyes. “But I would appreciate it if a few of you volunteered to remain here, in case our services are needed.”
Heads nodded, and one or two offered to stay. Talk turned to the likely contestants. Mirar listened closely, intrigued by this method of making a great game out of the selection of a ruler.
“You’ll be going?” Tintel asked him quietly.
He smiled. “Yes—unless you have other uses for me tomorrow?”
“No,” she said. “I can’t help but think of it as your first public appearance. How will the Voice attending the Trials react to you, I wonder?”
“I doubt he or she will notice me at all,” he said, chuckling. “I have no intention of dressing up for the occasion or strutting about asserting myself.”
The corner of her mouth twitched into a half smile. “No, I don’t imagine you have. I have to admit, I’m relieved to hear it. You announcing your presence here when Dekkar was leaderless did give a few people cause for concern.”
Mirar sobered. He hadn’t thought of that. It’s always the way. You think you’ve considered all the possible problems an action might cause, but miss the most obvious one.
“They have nothing to fear,” he told her. “From what I’ve heard, the contestants have to run around Kave seven times. I’m a little old for…”
The table fell abruptly silent. People had turned to look at the main door. Following the gaze of his fellow Dreamweavers, Mirar saw a man in a fancy uniform standing at the end of the hall.
The man cleared his throat.
“Is the sorcerer known as Mirar here?”
All heads turned to Mirar. He rose. “I am he.”
The man strode around the table and bowed formally. “I bring an invitation to you from Fourth Voice Genza, Holy Servant of the Five, to join her in witnessing the Chieftain Trials tomorrow. I am to ask if you are free to attend.”
Mirar felt a muscle in his belly tighten. A meeting with one of the Voices. I should have expected this. He could sense nothing but nervousness and curiosity from the messenger.
“I will be honored to attend,” he said.
“A servant will come here at an hour past dawn to escort you to the ceremony.” The messenger bowed again, then strode out of the room, leaving it quiet but full of both excitement and fear.