The Last Of The Wilds (58 page)

Her stomach sank at the question.

:I
might. I don’t know
...

:I
executed Mirar over one hundred years ago with as little evidence of his guilt as you have now. Have you lost your respect for me, knowing that?

She could not answer his question. To deny it would be dishonest, yet she still felt a great deal of respect for him.

r situations are not the same, she said.
Mirar did not open his mind to you. When you faced Mirar the gods had only just begun laying down the laws that we live by. The laws and principles that they are asking me to break
.

y asked me to trust them. Do you trust them?

s not as much as I did before, she admitted.
I cannot help it. When they asked me to do something unjust, I lost my trust that they would never ask me to do something unjust
. She felt a bitter amusement.
If I kill Mirar I will hate myself and question the gods’ wisdom for all eternity
.

:I fear you will now question the gods’ wisdom anyway.

She felt a cold stab of realization. He was right. There was no going back. She had lost a little of her respect for the gods and couldn’t make herself pretend that she hadn’t.
I am a White. A White should not doubt the gods he or she serves! If I can’t regain my respect for them then
... She shivered.
Then I shouldn’t be a White
.

?

Her mouth was dry. She forced her attention back to Juran.

t should I do? Should I return to Jarime?

. Stay in Si. There is no point you returning here when the sky people still need you.

He broke the contact. Opening her eyes, Auraya felt tears spring into them. All she had ever wanted was to be a priestess and use her Gifts to help people. To serve the glorious beings that were the gods.

The gods I love
, she thought.
But not as wholeheartedly now as before. That has been tainted. Ruined. Perhaps my love should be more robust. Perhaps I should be like Rian, willing to do anything, whether right or wrong, in their name. Am I being selfish? Does it matter whether I believe what I do is just?

But it
had
to matter whether the White cared if what they did was right or wrong. For it to be otherwise was frightening. And it did matter that the gods were good and just. Otherwise… what other abuses of power could the gods ask the White to perform?

If Mirar is right and the gods have abused their power plenty of times before, what would prevent them from doing so again? What if the gods had created the Circlians and White in order to to do whatever they wished in the world, unchallenged?

She felt her stomach clench. It was too frightening to consider. If the gods’ intentions were evil, where did that leave humans?

At their mercy.

The safest path for her was to stay in their favor—to kill Mirar and be an obedient servant. She should be as loyal as Rian, except her unquestioning obedience would be motivated by fear, not love or loyalty.

The thought made her feel ill. Living in a constant state of fear and lies, forced into actions she knew were wrong, would only lead to misery. An eternity of misery.

It might not come to that
, she thought.
No. The gods are not evil. They want Mirar dead because they fear he will harm mortals. Their viewpoint is too distant for them to see that he is no longer a danger. Mine is closer. I have seen inside his mind. I know better
.

But how could that be so? The gods were supposed to be wiser than humans. If she believed they were wrong, then she must believe they could make mistakes.
A White should not doubt the gods
. She put her head in her hands and faced the simple truth.
I am not worthy of this position
.

The crew scurried about the deck of the
Arrow
as if their lives depended on them getting their tasks done as quickly as possible. Rian looked over to the
Star
. The crew of the other ship was as busy. Dyara stood at the prow. Though the two ships would sail together, he would not speak to her except mentally for the next few weeks.

Footsteps echoed on the deck. He turn to see Juran approaching.

“Rian,” he said. “Have you everything you need?”

“Yes,” Rian replied.

Juran paused as a young priest carrying a wooden box hurried on board. The man approached them nervously, placed the box on the deck, then made the sign of the circle.

“The copies you requested, Rian of the White.”

“Thank you,” Rian replied. “You may go.”

“So what did you ask the scribes to stay up all night to copy?” Juran asked.

“Sennon’s Code of Law, some histories of previous emperors and a few studies I commissioned on the many cults practiced there. I will need some reading material for the journey, and did not want to risk taking originals.”

Juran chuckled. “I would not have thought you’d have time for reading on the way to Si, with your mind occupied in speeding the ship through the water.”

Rian shrugged. “No, but once Mirar is dealt with we may return at a more leisurely pace.”

The White leader’s expression became grim and pained. Rian had seen that look before. It appeared whenever Mirar’s name had been spoken. He had guessed long ago that killing Mirar had been unpleasant for Juran. It must be frustrating to find that the heathen leader of the Dreamweavers had not died, and was manipulating mortals again. And immortals. The sooner he and Dyara rid the world of Mirar the better—for Juran as well as the world. However, talking about it was pointless and would only frustrate Juran further.

“I am beginning to think it will take years, perhaps centuries, to bring Sennon under our protection,” Rian said, bringing the subject back to that land. “These people will worship anything. Have you heard of this new cult of the Maker?”

Juran’s eyebrows rose. “No.”

“It is based on the idea that the world, even the gods, were created by some greater being for some high purpose. This being is known as the Creator. The man who leads the religion offers no tangible proof of this, but uses twisted logic to convince people of the truth. The cult is small now, but it is growing at a disturbing rate.”

“New cults usually do. Their followers’ enthusiasm fails when they realize there is no advantage to be gained from a non-existent god—especially when death is close.”

“Yes.” Rian sniffed in disdain. “So few of them worship simply out of awe or respect. Always they expect something in return.”

Juran smiled. “If awe and respect were all that was required, you could worship this Creator as easily as the true gods.”

Rian shook his head. “I still require proof of their existence.”

Juran’s gaze had sharpened now. “And their goodness? What would you do if they asked you to do something you thought was unjust?”

Leaning back against the railing, Rian resisted a smile. This was about Auraya, he guessed. “No task is unjust, if they ask it of us.”

“Even if it contradicts the laws and principles they have encouraged us to embrace?”

“They must have their reasons for contradicting themselves. There are always circumstances in which laws may be flexed.”

“And if this wasn’t one of those circumstances?”

“Then I would conclude that I do not know the true circumstances. If the gods do not offer a reason for acting against their law, I must conclude they cannot. I would have to trust that their decision was right.”

Juran frowned and rubbed his chin.

“So you would not require them to explain their full reasons to you?”

“No.”

Rian watched as Juran drummed his fingers against his arm, his expression thoughtful. Of the four White, Juran was the only one who welcomed religious debate. Dyara didn’t have the patience for what she called “fruitless speculation,” and the few times Rian had attempted to draw Mairae into the subject she seemed uncomfortable. He hadn’t tried to talk to Auraya. Though the opportunity had come a few times in the past, he had let it pass by. It wasn’t that she gave the impression she wasn’t interested—more the opposite. But he suspected he would not find her opinions agreeable.

“Have the gods ever made a decision that you would not have agreed with, but you accepted only because you trust their wisdom?” Juran asked slowly.

Rian’s heart skipped a beat. Should he admit to that? Before he could decide, Juran smiled.

“I think I can guess that your hesitation indicates that they have.”

Rian nodded once. “But I came to see the wisdom of their decision later.”

Juran’s eyes narrowed. “You do not wish to tell me what that decision was.”

At first Rian began to shake his head, but then he reconsidered. In light of recent events, Juran might need to know this small thing.

“In the past it would have been petty to speak of it, but now it may prove important.”

“Yes?”

“I disagreed with Auraya’s Choosing.”

Juran’s eyebrows shot upward. “But you say you came to see the wisdom of it.”

“Yes, she proved useful.”

“You speak in past tense.”

Rian shrugged. “I cannot see the future. I do not know if she will be useful in the future.”

“It almost sounds as if you see her as… expendable,” Juran mused.

“I did not mean to.”

Juran looked away and sighed. “She has only been with us for a year. Was killing Mirar too much to ask of her?”

Rian frowned. “What time limit would you place on obedience to the gods? She vowed to serve them the day she was chosen—and before then: the day she became a priestess.”

Juran chewed on his lower lip. “Making that vow does not mean fulfilling it is easy.”

“She killed Kuar.”

“I have to wonder if Mirar would not recover again anyway. We do not understand his powers.”

“I will burn his body to ashes and scatter them across the world,” Rian assured him. “I doubt he’ll recover from that.”

Juran looked at him, his expression unreadable. “And what would you have the gods do with Auraya?”

Rian paused and frowned. “She disobeyed them. Perhaps she hesitated out of confusion or indecision, but they gave her a second chance and she still defied them. I find myself questioning her Choosing again, but I will accept whatever the gods decide.”

Juran nodded, his expression thoughtful. Then he looked around at the crew. They were no longer rushing about, but pretending to work while they waited for the signal to leave. The crew of the
Star
was also waiting expectantly.

“Have a safe journey, Rian. Don’t strain the ship too much.”

“Dyara would never let me come close to risking a leak,” Rian replied.

Juran chuckled. “No.”

Rian watched the White leader leave the ship, then nod to the captains of both vessels. An earlier discussion with Juran and Dyara came to mind.

“Together you will be strong enough to repel an attack by one of the Pentadrian leaders,” Juran had said.

“But not two,” Dyara had pointed out.

“If that should happen, call on Auraya. She is the only one of us who can reach you quickly.”

“And if she refuses to help?” Rian asked.

“She would never consider it,” Dyara said indignantly. “She may be a fool when it comes to Mirar, but she would not abandon us.”

“And if Mirar joins with the Pentadrians?” Rian asked.

Dyara and Juran had exchanged grim looks. “I feel that is unlikely,” Juran had said. “There was no sign of such an alliance in his mind. If there had been Auraya would have… behaved differently. But if such a situation occurs I see no choice for you but to flee.”

The two ships pulled away from the docks.
The gods will warn us
, Rian told himself.
And Auraya will have no choice but to come to her senses, or betray us all
.

The boat vibrated faintly as its hull scraped against the sand. An order was barked, and the rowers quickly stowed their oars, leapt out into the water, and began to haul the boat onto the shore. Reivan rose with Imenja and followed her mistress to the prow. They stepped onto dry sand then started toward the crowd of dark-skinned, hairless men.

It was not hard to distinguish the leader from the rest. The King of the Elai wore no clothing apart from a pair of short trousers made of a leathery material similar in color to his skin, but his body was draped and decorated with jewellery. From chains of gold hung medallions molded into the shapes of sea creatures, glinting with inset precious stones. Carved shells polished until they shone like rainbows had been linked together to form an impressive vest. The weight of the jewellery must have been considerable, but he held himself proudly, back straight and shoulders set. In one hand he held a spear that, despite embellishments of gold and jewels, looked as if it could easily withstand more than decorative use.

He was scowling.

Reivan suppressed a smile. Imi
had
warned them that her father was hostile to foreigners.

A protective circle of Elai warriors stood around the king, all wearing armor and frowns, and carrying spears. Imenja walked to the edge of this circle and stopped. The warriors nearest her stepped aside, allowing her and Reivan inside.

“Greetings, Ais, King of the Elai,” she said.

“Greetings, Imenja, Second Voice of the Pentadrians,” he replied.

“I have come here, as you requested. Did Princess Imi return to you?”

“Yes. She did.”

Imenja smiled. “That is good to hear. I would have escorted her all the way to you, but I understand that you have reason to dislike unexpected visitors.”

The king’s eyebrows lowered even further.

“I am grateful to you for her return,” he said stiffly. “I have asked you to meet me here so that I may offer my thanks to you for freeing her from those who meant her harm and for bringing her to us.” He lifted his free hand. “As a reward I have brought you this.”

The warriors behind him parted and several equally fierce-looking men stepped through carrying bundles. They moved past the king and stopped to unwrap their burdens, revealing an array of beautifully wrought gold and silver vessels, brimming with jewellery, unset gems, carved shells and, ironically, dried sea bells. Reivan felt a little thrill at the sight.