Heavy rain and fierce winds had roused Mirar from sleep several times during the night, but when he woke in the morning all was quiet. He looked outside his window. Cloud covered the sky, but in places it had parted to reveal patches of blue. Despite the rain it was still warm.
Though it was barely past dawn there was a smell of baking bread coming from the kitchen and Tintel was already in the hall, delicately slicing and eating fruit. She looked up at him and nodded in greeting. As he sat down in the hall to eat, the sound of heavy rain suddenly resumed.
“Not a pleasant day for the Trials,” Tintel said, joining him at the table. “I’d have thought the gods would arrange better.”
“I guess that depends on their own interpretation of the word ‘trial.’”
She chuckled. “Yes, I guess it does. Would you like me to accompany you today?”
He smiled and shook his head. “No—but thank you for offering.”
She nodded. He could sense her anxiety, though he could not tell if it were for his safety or that of all Dreamweavers—or both. If this meeting between him and Fourth Voice Genza went badly, would it affect the good relationship between Southern Ithanian Dreamweavers and Pentadrians?
I will just have to ensure it does not go badly, Mirar told himself.
A knock came from the main entrance. Tintel rose to answer it and returned with a man and a teenage boy. Both wore ribbons of blue and white sewn all over clothing of the same colors, but neither looked as cheerful as their costume. The boy was supported by the older man, hopping in order to avoid putting weight on one leg.
Tintel called to one of the Dreamweavers in the kitchen, who emerged, took one look at the colorful pair, and led them away. Tintel returned to her seat.
“We’ll be seeing plenty of broken bones and twisted ankles today,” she said.
Mirar looked at her questioningly.
“Wet platforms can be dangerously slippery,” she explained. “During an exciting public event, people—particularly young people—have a habit of rushing about carelessly. Ah. Here’s your escort.”
Mirar turned to see a middle-aged woman dressed in Servant robes standing on the threshold of the room. The woman was red-faced and sweating. As Mirar rose, her gaze slid to his.
“You are Mirar, founder of the Dreamweavers?” she asked.
“I am,” he replied.
Her eyebrows rose. “I am Servant Minga. I am to take you to meet Fourth Voice Genza.”
Mirar turned to Tintel. “Good luck.”
“You too,” she replied quietly. “Watch your step out there today.”
He smiled, sure that she was not referring to wet platforms, and walked over to greet the Servant. The woman was short but her bearing was proud. She was used to being respected and obeyed, Mirar guessed.
He gestured to the door. “Please lead the way.”
She nodded to Tintel before turning away. Mirar couldn’t help marvelling at the little gesture of respect. A Circlian priestess would never have done such a thing.
I could really come to love this country.
They stepped outside into fat, soaking drops of rain, and Mirar’s enthusiasm was quickly dampened! He drew a little magic and shielded them both, earning a small smile of gratitude from his guide. Despite the rain it didn’t seem much cooler, but the upper level of Kave was gleaming with moisture and smelled of wet timber.
They walked slowly, making their way from platform to platform. Dekkans lounged in chairs under wide verandas, fanning themselves. They smiled and nodded as Mirar passed, and he took that to be a good sign. If the people of Dekkar liked him being here perhaps the Voices would, too.
After a few minutes, however, he heard the patter of several footsteps behind him and his heart sank as he imagined a mob of supporters following him to the Hall of Chieftains. That would only give the Voice the impression he had a strong influence over them—which she could hardly be expected to like.
He stopped and looked over his shoulder, then smothered a laugh. The crowd was a group of children, their eyes wide with curiosity. They grinned at him.
“Hello,” he said. “Why are you following me?”
“We like you,” a boy said.
“You healed Pinpin,” a girl told him.
“And Mimi.”
“And Doridori’s mother.”
“Are you going to the Trials?”
He nodded.
“We are too!” The children cheered, then as one they ran away, their feet pounding on the boards. Smiling, Mirar turned to find the Servant regarding him curiously. He shrugged and they continued on their way.
As they crossed a bridge Mirar caught a movement below and looked down. Tiny temporary shelters had been constructed on the ground below the platforms, on either side of a creek. He caught the smell of refuse and sewage. This was where the poorer residents of Kave lived, gathering what the affluent ones discarded. Those above complained about the smell from below, yet if the poor didn’t gather the garbage dropped from above and keep the creeks flowing freely the whole city would have smelled far worse.
Tintel had told Mirar that the poor lashed the walls of their shelters together to form rafts when the floods came. They tethered these to trees or platforms to prevent them being washed out to sea. Pentadrians had condemned to slavery three rich young men who had loosed several rafts as a prank the year before. A few of the families had been rescued by ships and had identified the men, but most were never found.
The closer they came to the Hall of the Chieftains, the more crowded the porches of Kave became. Everyone wore bright clothing decorated with ribbons or flowers. More blossoms bedecked the houses and platforms, though those unprotected from the rain were drooping with moisture.
The rain ended suddenly, but water continued to drip from rooftops. Sometimes the crowd was so thick the Servant had to clear her throat or ask loftily that people stand aside. At last the Hall of the Chieftains came in sight. Like Kave’s Sanctuary, it was made of stone. It was a squat pyramid of three levels, rising up from the muddy ground below. The sloped sides were of enormous staggered stone bricks, like an oversized staircase. In the center of the structure was a section of normal-sized stairs leading to the topmost level. A visitor must literally climb the walls to get there.
A pavilion had been erected on the first level. Several men and a few women sat on reed chairs beneath this. Servants stirred the air in the room with large fans. Their efforts were directed mainly at a dark-skinned woman in black robes sitting on a reed couch at the center of the pavilion.
Mirar’s guide led him across the bridge. She stopped by one of the corner poles of the pavilion and he waited beside her. The dark-skinned woman was talking to one of her companions. As he finished she looked up at Mirar and smiled, then rose and walked forward to meet him.
She’s tall, he noted. And she walks with the grace of someone who is fit. But she is lean rather than muscular, and her face is quite beautiful.
“I am Genza, Fourth Voice of the Gods,” she said in Dekkan. “You are Mirar, immortal leader of the Dreamweavers?”
“I am,” he replied. He felt a small shiver of apprehension at admitting to his identity so freely after all the years of hiding. “Though I am only their founder and teacher, not their leader,” he added.
Genza nodded once at the guide, who walked away. “Please join me,” she said to him, gesturing to the couch.
He sat down beside her, aware that sharing her couch was probably a great honor. Genza introduced him to the other men and women. Most were patriarchs and matriarchs of Kave’s wealthier families—Mirar had met a few during healing visits. Others included the local Dedicated Servants, war chiefs, and ambassadors from Avven and Mur.
“And here are our candidates.”
All turned to the front of the pavilion. Four men and one woman, all dressed in colorful clothing, stood before them. All traced a star in the air before Genza. The Voice rose and greeted each in turn, wishing them luck.
The first was a man in his late thirties, with a little gray showing in his hair. He gave an impression of maintained fitness and health, and his gaze was sharp.
Next came a younger man with broad shoulders and the muscular body of active youth. His eyes kept moving to someone behind Mirar and he appeared to be struggling not to grin.
Beside him stood another young man. This one was thin and serious. He did not have the fitness of the first two, but his face was prematurely marked with lines that suggested he spent a lot of time in thought—or worrying.
The fourth candidate was a woman in her thirties. She stood with a straight back and her expression was all suppressed defiance. The last was a man Mirar judged to be in his fifties, with a wiry body and a kind face. His clothing was as bright as the others’ but at close inspection was clearly of low-quality cloth.
At a word from Genza, the five contestants turned to face the crowd. She stepped past them, into the rain. A quiet slowly fell over the city.
“Today each of these men and women will undergo physical and magical ordeals,” she said, her voice unnaturally loud. “Their knowledge, intelligence and morality will be questioned, then their reputation examined and their popularity weighed. They must pass all these Trials, but only the one with the highest score shall win. Wish them luck!”
A cheer rose from the crowd. Genza lifted her arms and they quietened again.
“The first Trial is that of physical strength, stamina and agility. A path has been set out that they must follow.” She paused. “Do not interfere with the candidates’ progress,” she warned. “Cheating or sabotage will be punished by death.”
She dropped her arms and turned to face the candidates.
“Are you ready?”
The five nodded.
A spark of light appeared above Genza’s head.
The spark flared.
“The Chieftain Trials begin now!” she shouted.
The city erupted in cheering as the contestants hurried away, descending the pyramid. Genza returned to her seat. A moment later Mirar glimpsed a contestant running under the houses. He noticed colored poles rammed into the ground, ribbons strung between them, and black-clad Servants standing beside them.
Genza turned to regard Mirar again. “So, Mirar of the Dreamweavers, how long have you been in Dekkar?”
“A few months.”
“You didn’t make your presence known for some time, then?”
“I was unsure if I would be safe here.” He paused, then raised an eyebrow at the woman. “Am I?”
She smiled. “That depends on your plans. If you decided to rule Dekkar for yourself we would ensure it was the shortest reign of a Chieftain in history. And there have been some very short ones.”
“I have no ambition to rule any country. That is a task better suited to people such as yourself.”
“And what am I?”
He looked at her, surprised by the question. “Favored by the gods. Smart. Beautiful. People like leaders with those qualities.”
Leaning back, she regarded him through half-closed eyes.
“You are charming—and not so bad-looking yourself. I must admit, I was expecting an old man.”
He smiled. “I am an old man.”
She laughed. Then she leaned forward and touched his knee lightly. “I’ll tell you a secret. I am not as young as I look either.”
Again he felt surprise. Genza’s gaze was dark and her smile was mischievous.
I’d think she was flirting with me, if she wasn’t a…
A Voice? He’d heard nothing to suggest the Voices were celibate. He knew their Servants weren’t, though he’d always suspected the rumors of ritual orgies were exaggerations.
Was she merely being friendly or was she offering him something more? If she did proposition him, what would he do? She was attractive, and something told him she was very experienced…but something else made him hesitate.
Maybe it was natural caution. He couldn’t know what consequences might come out of bedding a woman in such a position of power. Then he remembered that Pentadrians in Jarime had arranged for Dreamweavers to be murdered a few months before. Genza may have had something to do with that, and the thought was more than enough to extinguish his interest.
She appeared to sense it and leaned back in her seat again.
“So what are your plans for the future, Dreamweaver Mirar?” she asked.
He shrugged. “My people are everywhere in Southern Ithania. I would like to travel around the continent, learning about the languages and ways of the people, and teaching healing skills as I did in the past.”
She nodded. “Then you must come to Glymma. Come to the Sanctuary and introduce yourself to my fellow Voices.” Her smile broadened and she lowered her chin and looked at him from under her brows. “Even if they do not make a fuss of you, I will. I see the potential for a profitable alliance between us.”
He chuckled and regarded her thoughtfully. “Ah, your gods choose well. Why am I unsure if you’re trying to seduce me politically or physically?”
Her eyes sparkled and she grinned widely. “Success is reaching a position where one’s talents are best utilized.”
He nodded. “That is true. I’m afraid I have proven to be a bad example for Dreamweavers at times. I try to avoid what I don’t have a talent for. My talents are those of a healer, teacher and guide, so I can only speak for Dreamweavers in a very limited way.”
“Yet as a teacher and guide, your actions could still affect the future of the Dreamweavers. You could still guide the Dreamweavers, say, away from a continuing friendship between Dreamweavers and Pentadrians.”
“I could, but I would not, of course.”
“Of course.”
“And I might seek a reassurance on their behalf that Pentadrians do not intend us any further harm.”
Her eyes narrowed, suggesting she had caught his reference to the Dreamweaver murders in Jarime.
“Be assured, then, that we do not regard Dreamweavers with any animosity,” she told him.
No animosity, he mused. But you won’t think twice about using individuals to further your own ends again.
“What do you know of the candidates?” she asked him, changing the subject.
He shrugged. “Very little. Only the gossip I’ve overheard from other Dreamweavers. I don’t completely understand what the Trials are for. Why this physical test? Is it necessary? A ruler can be fit yet not fit to rule.”
Genza’s shoulders lifted. “It is a tradition. It increases the chances that a ruler will last a while. The physical trial isn’t overly demanding, but it removes the weak and those inclined to laziness and excess.”
“They might put aside laziness and excess only for as long as it takes to win.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “And there is always the chance that a candidate’s youth will allow them to perform well now, only to be ruined by excess later. Ah, speaking of excess…”
Servants were entering the pavilion carrying platters of food and large pitchers. For the next hour or so Genza encouraged all her companions to eat and drink. From their constant thanks Mirar guessed she had paid for the feast.
From time to time a candidate would be seen and pointed out, and the conversation would turn to speculation and wagers increased. The two young men were the first to return to the pavilion, where they were set to the task of picking up heavy stone balls of increasing sizes. The woman arrived next, but struggled with the lifting task. The sharp-eyed man followed soon after and managed well, while the older man came last but surprised all with his strength.
Now a large frame of wood the size of a room was wheeled to the pavilion by several muscular men. It was covered in a fine netting. A simple but beautiful timing device of glass tubes was set in front of Genza. Mirar heard a low whine over the chatter around him. It grew louder as five large baskets were carried to the frame and set on the ground.
The city was buzzing with voices and Mirar sensed their rising excitement and curiosity. From the candidates he detected anxiety and a little dread. The muscular young man appeared to be the most frightened.
Genza inspected the frame, walking around it slowly. When she had circled it, she turned to the candidates.
“This is a test of your magical skills. As you have all guessed, each of these baskets contains zappers. A hundred in each, which I can assure you was no easy task to arrange. You will enter the cage and the net will be secured. The zappers will be released. You must protect yourself and kill the entire swarm as quickly as possible with magic.” She smiled. “If any of you doubt your ability to complete this task please step aside now. We have a Dreamweaver here, but I’m sure he’d prefer not to spend the afternoon removing zapper larvae from your bodies.”
None of the candidates moved, though the muscular young man shuddered.
“Good. Who would like to go first?”
The candidates exchanged glances, then the sharp-eyed man stepped forward. There was a cheer from the crowd. Genza told him to pick up a basket and carry it inside. He set it in a corner, then backed to the far side of the cage. The netting was carefully fixed back into place.
Genza waited until all was silent, then she made the smallest gesture with one hand. The lid of the basket flew off and a black cloud rushed out.
The sharp-eyed man attacked with magic immediately, turning the zappers’ attention to himself. It was hard to see the insects, they were moving so fast. Mirar caught glimpses of segmented tails and antennae. The buzz of their wings was deafening, but the stunning flashes of their magic were silent.
Mirar had heard of these jungle insects. The magical stun of one insect was painful although not fatal, but when struck by many stings at once an animal could be paralyzed. Most of the time the insects stunned only to protect their nests. But at certain times, triggered by the full moon, the insects stunned in order to lay eggs in living flesh. A lamp hung over a basket of zappers triggered the same instinct.
Which was hardly needed for this Trial. The zappers would attack savagely enough without being induced to lay eggs, and the candidates were not being tested for their ability to fight them, but how long it took to kill them all.
The buzz had diminished now. As the sharp-faced man killed the last of the insects Genza glanced at the water timer.
“Five and a half measures. Well done.”
Mirar found himself caught up in the tension despite himself as the other contestants each had their turn in the cage. The sharp-faced man proved to be the fastest, though the older man was nearly as quick. The serious young man picked the zappers off slowly, which told Mirar that he probably wasn’t Gifted enough to draw magic for multiple strikes.
The floor of the cage rattled with dead zappers as it was wheeled away. Now the candidates were given stools to sit on and some water and fruit to eat. Genza invited a patriarch in the pavilion to ask questions of them. The man described complicated trading scenarios that involved mathematics and an understanding of trading terms, and it soon became clear that the older man struggled with both.
As Genza chose another in the pavilion to ask a question, then another, Mirar began to wonder if all in the shelter would be required to quiz the candidates. The war chiefs and the Dedicated Servants seized the opportunity with enthusiasm, asking strategy and religion-related questions. The other patriarchs and matriarchs tested the candidates on law and moral dilemmas.
When all had had their turn Genza turned to him.
“I have not asked you to prepare a question, Dreamweaver Mirar, but you may ask one if you wish.”
He nodded. “Thank you. I would be honored.” He turned to face the candidates. “This is a question for all of you. It does not involve calculations or recitation of laws. I am merely interested to know: what will you do for the people below during your rule?”
The woman smiled, the older man flushed red with pleasure and straightened with pride, but the three other candidates frowned. For the thin, serious young man it was a frown of thoughtfulness, however. The other two were scowling.
“Ask them what they need and want, and provide what can be affor—” the woman began.
“Build platforms,” the older man said. “The city can afford it. Once we’re off the ground we’ll have the same chances as everyone else, and the city will be healthier all in all.”
Mirar turned to the sharp-eyed man. The man looked at Genza, then shrugged.
“Nothing. There will always be people below. There’s nothing we can do to help them if they won’t help themselves.”
The older man turned to glare at him. His mouth opened, but as Genza cleared her throat he stilled and hunched sullenly on his stool.
Mirar looked at the two young men. The muscular one shrugged. “Offer help only to those who’ll work for it.”
“Yes,” the serious one said. “Though we can’t expect the truly feeble or the very young to work. Some help can be freely given, some should encourage improvement. We must accept that there will always be outcasts and those who cannot help themselves, but for the sake of the city and decency we should look for ways to improve their surroundings.”
“An interesting question to end with,” Genza said. She stood up and her voice echoed through the city. “Now begins the Trial of Reputation.”
The candidates rose and moved to one side. Servants removed the stools. Mirar realized that the rain had stopped and the weak sunlight had brightened a little.
Genza rose. “The Reputation of each candidate is now on trial,” she called out. “Anyone may speak for or against them. We will listen and consider your words.”
For the next few hours people filed through the pavilion, stopping to tell of their encounters with one or more of the candidates. Some were there just to get a look at Genza or speak of minor wrongs like being short-changed.
Mirar began to see that the older man was a popular leader among the people below, while the woman was well-loved by those above. Few had anything ill to say of either of them.
The younger men proved to have fewer supporters and more detractors. The muscular, young man was inclined to foolish, drunken behavior. The sharp-eyed man’s most damning critic was a limping, battered merchant who claimed an assassin had been sent to kill him so he wouldn’t reveal the illegal trading the man was involved in.
A bell rang out, marking the end of the Trial. Some of those who had not spoken yet were angered by this, but all were sent away. Once more Genza addressed the crowd.
“Now the Trial of Popularity begins. Leave your ribbons in the baskets provided. Tonight the baskets will be weighed, the points of each candidate tallied, and the new High Chieftain announced.”
Mirar watched as the citizens of Kave began to file across the bridge. They selected lengths of ribbon from a huge basket then placed them into one of five smaller baskets bedecked with the colors of the candidates. A Servant stood by each basket, watching closely.
Genza returned to her seat, then grimaced apologetically at Mirar. “I’m afraid this is the least interesting part of the rites, but at least we have each other for company.”
“It has been more entertaining than I expected,” he told her. “I am grateful for the invitation.”
She laughed quietly. “That is good. So. One of those five will be High Chieftain of Dekkar at the end of the day,” she said. “Who do you think will win?”
“The one you and the people of Dekkar find most suitable,” he replied.
“How diplomatic. Do you care to guess which that will be?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know enough about them.”
Her eyebrows rose. “You truly haven’t taken any interest in them, have you?”
“No.”
“I would have thought you’d be at least a little concerned about who the next High Chieftain is. He or she will be the one you will have to deal with.”
“I doubt I’ll have any reason to. I prefer not to involve myself in politics.”
She smiled. “But what if politics decides to involve itself in you?”
“I will endeavor to discourage it.”
“And me? Will you try to discourage me?”
Mirar’s skin prickled in warning. He made himself smile. “If I must, though I’ll admit I would gain no pleasure from it.”
Her smile widened. “Then don’t. I will be returning to Glymma in a few days. I want you to accompany me. You should meet my fellow Voices.”
A chill ran down Mirar’s spine. This was no invitation, though it wasn’t a straight order. He regarded her seriously. “Be assured I am honored by the invitation. I do intend to visit Glymma and would like to meet the other Voices. I would prefer to have seen more of Southern Ithania first. Must my visit be so soon?”
She nodded. “Your travels can wait. There can be nothing more important for you now than establishing a friendly acquaintance with us.” Her expression softened and she tilted her head. “And I think you will provide entertaining company on my return journey.”
Mirar suppressed a sigh. He was not going to be able to refuse her.
“When do you leave?”
“In two days.”
A cheer gave him an excuse to shift his attention away. The muscular young man was performing acrobatics to entertain the voters. Genza snorted softly.
“Thank the gods the Chieftain is not chosen by popularity alone,” she murmured.
“Do the Trials have any effect on the decision?”
She gave him an affronted look that was clearly faked.
“Of course they do. If we didn’t let the people think they had a part in it, they might not accept our decision.”
He nodded. “I guessed as much.”
“You disapprove?”
“Not at all. I know you’ll choose wisely.”
“How can you be sure?”
“While you and your fellow Voices are probably willing to sort out any troubles in Kave, I’m sure you’d rather not make the long journey here too often, especially not in summer.”
She chuckled. “Kave isn’t at its best this time of year. There’s no better time to visit Glymma, actually. Will you come with me?”
He smothered a sigh and considered. I have no pressing reason to refuse and risk offending her and the other Voices. Since I will most likely meet these Voices eventually, it may as well be at their invitation. He nodded.
“Wonderful!” she exclaimed. “I shall arrange a cabin for you on my barge.”
Another cheer came from the crowd. Looking out at the city, Mirar thought back to the battle between the Circlians and the Pentadrians. He remembered watching a black-robed woman, one of the Pentadrian leaders, slaughtering mortals with magic. He realized then that Genza was the Voice that had bred the black birds that had savaged the Siyee, clawing at wings and eyes and sending sky people falling to their deaths.
So? Auraya probably killed just as many Pentadrians, he reminded himself.
But somehow it was easier to imagine Auraya feeling bad about it than Genza.
Auraya had learned much about Nekaun, the First Voice of the Gods, since the previous day. After she had taken the food she had stolen to the two Siyee, she had carried Mischief to a new vantage point. From there she watched with both mind and eyes the activities below. Though she could not sense the mind of the First Voice, she could observe him through others.
He had been elected by his people, not by his gods. Prior to his election he had been in charge of a temple dedicated to one of the Pentadrian goddesses, Hrun. That goddess was a benign one concerned with love and family, and his role had been to arrange and lead the rituals of the Temple.
The Second Voice of the Gods, Imenja, was rumored to dislike and disagree with Nekaun. This was attributed to the fact that Imenja’s adviser, Companion Reivan, was known to be Nekaun’s current lover. All expected this situation to improve when Nekaun, notoriously fickle, moved on to a new lover.
Good to see our enemies enjoy just as much scandal and gossip as we do, she thought.
Imenja and two of the other Voices were in Glymma. Ironically, it was Genza, the woman in charge of the fighting birds the Siyee had tried to attack, who was furthest from the city, attending to a ceremony in the south of the continent.
Auraya had also learned much about the Pentadrian religion. Information gathered by the White’s spies had told her the names of the Voices and their gods, as well as a few Dedicated Servants, but no Circlian spies had been able to supply many details of their beliefs and hierarchy. All Servants could wield magic except, interestingly, this Companion Reivan, who had gained the position in return for a good deed during the war.
Reivan had been a member of a group of intellectuals known as the Thinkers. In Jarime there were social circles of academics and enthusiasts, but nothing like this organized society of men and women of learning.
Not long after dawn the town had begun to stir. Auraya had watched, Mischief curled up in her lap, as the inhabitants had risen and set about their daily tasks. Some of the Pentadrians, however, were occupied with less routine work: tending to and arranging for the transportation of their Siyee prisoners to Glymma.
Auraya watched as uncovered platten were hired in one part of the town and Siyee were given water and bread in another. She observed Nekaun through the eyes of his Servants. All the time she looked for flaws in their plans that might give her and the Siyee the opportunity for escape.
So far the Siyee had been securely imprisoned close to Nekaun inside a building. Once outside, the only person who could prevent her freeing them was Nekaun. Any attempt to free them would have to happen before they reached Glymma. She was sure escape would be much harder to arrange once they reached the city.
A line of platten now waited outside the building. The First Voice emerged and walked around the vehicles as if inspecting them. She tensed as she detected the Siyee’s fear rising. They were being taken out of the room they had been imprisoned within. Pentadrians guided them firmly out of the building. She watched as, one by one, they were taken outside, lifted into the platten and bound to iron rings attached to the vehicles’ sides.
If only Nekaun wasn’t here, she thought.
But even if he hadn’t been, how could she have freed the Siyee without fighting off the attacks of the Servants? She ground her teeth. Chaia’s voice echoed in her memory.
:…If this ambush of yours leads to Auraya turning from us…
She was determined to disappoint Huan. If she was going to fail a test of loyalty, it would be by doing something much less trivial than fighting when she had been ordered not to.
But what if not fighting leads to the Siyee’s deaths? Auraya’s jaw ached from grinding her teeth. She rubbed it, then sighed. I’ll only be able to decide that when—if—the time comes. But if they die I will make Huan pay for it. Somehow.
She grimaced at her own thoughts then. How had she come to the point of wishing to take revenge on a god she had once loved?
Mirar would find this amusing.
The platten were full of Siyee and Pentadrians now. The last of the vehicles bore only Nekaun and a driver. They began to move.
People paused to stare as the procession wound through the town. The Siyee were a strange sight to them. A frightening one, too. Siyee had killed many Pentadrians during the war.
As the platten reached the edge of the town and set out along the road to Glymma, Auraya began to rise. Mischief gave a sleepy whine of protest as she lifted him into her pack.
“Pack bad,” he murmured.
“I’m sorry, Mischief,” she told him.
Stepping off the rock pinnacle she had been sitting on all night, she propelled herself after the Siyee and their captors.