The Last Of The Wilds (17 page)

He spoke softly, with no anger, but with a quiet horror. She shivered, appalled that her old friend had suffered so. Appalled that the great Mirar had been reduced to a cripple with no memory.

“I healed so slowly,” he continued. “My hair fell out and grew back white. I couldn’t cut it, and by the time I was able to I couldn’t remember why I should want to. As soon as I was able to get my legs to move well enough to carry me, I fled Jarime. I was frightened of the city, but couldn’t remember why. So I hobbled from town to town, village to village, travelling further and further away. Begging, scavenging, treated with charity in one place and driven away from others. The way I existed was pathetic, and it went on for years and years and years.”

He sighed. “But still I grew stronger. My scars dwindled away. While some memories faded, others returned. I remembered that I was a Dreamweaver, but it was a long time before I dared to make myself a vest or offer my services. I stayed longer in each place, years instead of months. The longest I stayed was for more than a decade, and that was after…” He paused, then grimaced. “After I found a child with so much potential I could not help but stay and teach her.”

“Auraya,” Emerahl ventured.

He nodded. “She would have made a fine Dreamweaver.”

Emerahl felt a mild surprise. “You think so?”

“Yes. She is intelligent. Compassionate. Gifted. All the right characteristics.”

“Except for a certain preference for the gods.”

He smiled ruefully. “Yes. Except for that. Once again, they ruined my plans. Or Leiard’s, anyway.” He frowned. “The Tower in the dream is the White Tower. It didn’t exist then, but it was built where the Dreamweaver House stood. I think seeing that prompted my memories to return.”

Emerahl leaned forward. “So, is Leiard still there?”

“I don’t know.” Mirar looked up at her, his expression unreadable. “I guess it is time to find out.”

She nodded. “I guess it is.” She paused, watching him closely. “Should I summon him?”

“May as well get it over with.”

She drew in a deep breath.

“Leiard. Speak to me.”

His eyes widened and his face contorted. Emerahl watched in horror and dismay as all signs of Mirar disappeared to be replaced by a mask of terror. His mouth opened, he sucked in a great lungful of air, then he covered his face and a tortured sound poured out—a thin cry of anguish and fear.

Obviously Leiard’s not gone
, she thought dryly.

He was rising to his feet. She rose hastily and moved closer.

“Leiard. Calm down.”

The sound he was making faded to silence. His hands shifted to the sides of his head, as if he wanted to crush it.

“A lie,” he gasped. “A lie—and she doesn’t know! She doesn’t know what she loved was…” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m not real.”

Suddenly his eyes were open and staring at Emerahl. He took two steps toward her and gripped her shoulders. “But
I am!
If I wasn’t, how is it possible that I can think? And
feel?
How can I not be real?”

Emerahl stared back at him. He looked half mad, half desperate. She felt a pang of sympathy. “He made you too well,” she found herself saying.

He released her in one shove of rejection. She stumbled backward and one heel struck the bed. It hurt and she let out an involuntary gasp. Leiard did not notice, however.

“Why did he make me capable of love?” he railed. “How could he even do so, when he is incapable of it himself?” He paused, then spun about to stare at her accusingly. “Was this what he planned, then? Create another person, then kill him? He might as well sire a child, then murder it.”

He has a point
, she thought.

Then she shook her head. Leiard was not a real person. He had not been born. He had not grown up among a family. He had not formed this personality over time, it had been created. It made sense that Mirar would give his disguise a sense of self, or it would have no sense of self-preservation.

Suddenly he turned from her and began striding toward the cave entrance. Her heart stopped.

“Leiard!” she shouted. “Don’t leave the protection of…” He kept walking. “... curse it.
Mirar!
Come back!”

He stopped. She watched as his shoulders straightened. He turned to regard her, his expression serious. It was impossible to tell if her summons had worked. To her relief, he walked back into the center of the room.

“That wasn’t pleasant,” he muttered as he sat down on the end of his bed.

“Mirar?” she asked tentatively.

“Yes, it’s me,” he confirmed. He stretched out on the bed, scowling. “So. What shall we try next, Old Hag?”

She snorted at his use of the name. The Old Hag. Provider of cures for ills or bad circumstances.

“Time,” she prescribed. “I need to think. So do you.” She stood up. “Can I trust you to stay put?”

“You can trust
me
,” he said. “I won’t be voluntarily handing the reins over to
him
again.”

“Good,” she told him. “Because I can’t stay to watch you. We have to eat, and sleep. It’ll become unpleasant in here if I can’t empty those buckets.”

He glanced toward his own waste bucket and grimaced apologetically. “I hate to change an unpleasant subject to another, but I’m afraid I used mine while you were out.”

She shrugged. Walking to the bucket, she picked it up. “I’ll take care of it now—and see if I can find a more interesting breakfast.”

“Thank you,” he offered, then added a little sheepishly, “We need some fresh water, too.”

She sighed, picked up the water bucket, and walked quickly out of the cave. Her footsteps echoed in the tunnel, but the sound was soon overwhelmed by the crashing of the waterfall. At the end of the tunnel she paused to stare at the falling water.

He might as well sire a child, then murder it.

Leiard’s reaction had shaken her and his words had sent chills down her spine. He clearly understood what his fate would probably be—and he did not like it. He was going to fight for his existence.

This isn’t good
, she thought.
It can’t be healthy to have two people struggling for control of the same body
.

No matter how cruel it seemed, Leiard was an
invention
. Mirar was the real person. They could not both continue to exist.

She sighed and moved outside the cave. The rain had stopped and the sun emerged from the cloud, reflected in water droplets everywhere. She paused to admire the effect. It was pretty. Romantic, even. She thought of Leiard’s references to Auraya. It
was
interesting that an invention of Mirar’s could feel romantic love. Surely that meant he was capable of it himself.

If that was so, then everything Leiard was, Mirar could be too. Mirar might not
like
those aspects of himself, but Leiard was evidence of them.

This isn’t a battle between Leiard and Mirar
, she thought suddenly.
It’s Mirar fighting what he doesn’t like or accept about himself
.

In that case
, she thought,
he needs to
—

A fleeting emotion from an unfamiliar mind touched her senses. She froze, then made herself relax and search her surroundings. Somewhere to the left a male was watching her. From his emotions of concern and worry she gathered that he was alarmed by her presence here in Si. Was he alone?

Heart racing, she searched her surroundings and found another mind. Two minds—no, three.
Four!

So much for my brilliant hiding place
, she thought.
If we are discovered so easily… But who else would have ventured so far into Si?

The Siyee, of course.

She felt alarm ease a little. There was always a chance that the gods were watching her through the Siyee, but the odds were small. She sensed curiosity as well as caution, and guessed finding her here had been a surprise to them.

They were, however, more fearful than she would have expected. Why they feared a lone landwalker woman, she couldn’t guess. Perhaps they were worried that she wasn’t alone.

Well, I had better make an attempt to meet them. If I don’t they are likely to bring back others, whereas if I convince them I’m friendly and don’t intend to stay long they might leave me alone.

She set the bucket down, then walked slowly along the water’s edge, pretending to be looking for food. When she was close enough to the Siyee to be heard over the falling water she straightened and glanced deliberately in the direction of each of the four strangers.

“Greetings, people of the sky,” she called, hoping their language hadn’t changed too much.

There was a long, anxious pause during which one of the watchers—a male—considered what to do. As she sensed him become decisive she turned to face him and saw movement in the trees.

A gray-haired Siyee stepped into view. He stopped and uttered a series of sounds and whistles. Emerahl understood enough to know he was introducing himself.

“Greetings, Veece, Speaker of the North River tribe,” she replied. “I am Jade Dancer.”

“Greetings, Jade Dancer. Why are you here, in Si?”

She considered her answer carefully. “When I heard war was coming, I came here to wait until it is over.”

“Then I bring good news,” he told her. “The war was brief. It ended nearly two moon cycles ago.”

She pretended to be delighted. “That
is
good news!” Then she added hastily: “Not that I don’t like Si, but it is a bit… ah… hard on a landwalker.”

He moved a few steps closer and she sensed a lingering suspicion. “The forest is dangerous and the journey here difficult for those without wings. How have you lived here? How is it you know our language?”

She shrugged. “I have lived many years on the edge of your lands,” she told him. “I have knowledge and Gifts— and I once helped an injured Siyee, who taught me your language. I work as a healer, when I am among my people.”

“You are not a priestess?”

“Me?” she asked, surprised. “No.”

“I thought all Gifted landwalkers became priests or priestesses.”

“No. Some of us don’t want to.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why not?”

He’s a nosy one
, she mused. “I don’t want to tell others what to do, and I don’t want them to tell me what to do.”

For the first time, he smiled. “Forgive my questions. There are two reasons for them. We feared that you were a Pentadrian sorceress—a woman who once attacked our people. We are soon to have our own priests and priestesses so I was curious to know why someone might not want to be one.”

The Siyee are to have their own priests and priestesses?
The news saddened her. They had been free from Circlian influence for so long.
I suppose they need the protection now that there is the Pentadrian threat
.

She considered the old man. He was no longer radiating anxiety, though his curiosity was still tempered by caution. She felt certain he and his companions meant her no harm. They believed she was alone and that was how it must stay. She was not going to take any risks by introducing Mirar.

No, best she convince these people she was alone and harmless.

She crouched and washed her hands in the cold, swiftly running water.

“There’s a basket-fruit tree just down the river from here,” she said. “Would you stay and eat with me? I haven’t had company for a long time.”

He glanced toward his companions, then nodded. “Yes. We will. We cannot stay long, as we are already late in returning to our tribe, but we have time enough to talk and eat.”

He whistled loudly. From among the trees stepped the other three Siyee: a middle-aged woman and two youths. They stared at Emerahl nervously as they approached. Veece introduced them. She smiled at them all, then rose and beckoned.

“Follow me. I don’t know about you, but I always talk better when I’m not hungry.”

And she led them down the river, and away from Mirar.

The sky was a roiling blanket of low black clouds. Lightning dazzled her eyes. There was no thunder, just silence.

There was no storm the night after the battle
, Auraya thought as she stepped over bodies.
Well, there were no talking corpses either
.

She endeavored to avoid looking at the faces of the dead, having learned that this triggered them into movement. Not looking down made navigation of the battlefield difficult, however. The darkness between the flashes of lightning was absolute. The moment came when her foot caught on a corpse, and she found herself looking down.

Bloodshot eyes stared up at her. Lips moved.

“You killed me,” the dead man wheezed.

I used to wake up at this point
, she thought.
No more, however
.

“You killed me,” another voice said. A woman. A priestess. Then another spoke, and another. All around her bodies were moving. Rising, if they could. Dragging themselves forward if they could not. Coming toward her. Chanting their accusation, louder and louder.

“You killed me! You killed me! You killed me!”

She ran, but there was no escaping them. They surrounded her.
I used to wake up now, too
. Reached out to her. Bore her down into a crush of putrid, rotting bodies. Faces pressed close to hers, spitting and dribbling blood and gore. She felt them press against her chest with their bony fingers, the pressure making it hard to breathe. All the time they uttered the same words.

“Owaya! Owaya!”

What…?

Suddenly she was awake and looking into a pair of large eyes fringed with fine lashes. Eyes that belonged to a veez.

“Owaya,” Mischief repeated aloud, this time with a definite note of satisfaction. He was sitting on her chest, shifting his weight from one paw to another.

“Mischief!” she gasped. As she sat up he leapt off her onto the bed. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then turned to regard the veez.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Scratch?” he suggested.

She obliged him, enjoying the feel of his soft fur as she scratched all along his back. As he made small noises of pleasure, she considered her nightmares. They were getting worse, not better. What this meant, she couldn’t guess.