The Last Of The Wilds (12 page)

He closed his eyes. Emerahl’s bed creaked as she lay down. For a while she tossed and turned. At one point she muttered darkly about not being able to get to sleep now that he needed her to, then her breathing began to slow and deepen. He let himself sink into a dream trance.

The state of mind he sought hovered between unfettered dreaming and conscious control. In that state he was like a child playing with a toy boat in a stream. The boat was his mind and it went wherever the current took it, but he could only direct it with gentle nudges or by stirring the water, though he could simply pick the boat up if it ventured where he did not want it to go.

l, he called. A long silence followed, then a groggy mind touched his.

? Hmm, I am definitely out of practice. Shall I show you the dream? she asked.

e your time, he said.
No need to hurry
.

Instead of calming her, his words stirred a mixture of anxiety and agitation. Flashes of thought and images escaped her defense. He saw a scene that was unfamiliar in detail, but familiar in context. A sumptuous room. Beautiful women. Not so good-looking men in fine clothing appraising the women.

At the same time he sensed her desire to hide something from him, lest he be disappointed in her. He had seen enough to comprehend what that was, and felt a flash of anger. She’d done it again. She’d sold her body to men. Why did she do this to herself?

Then the familiar presence of another stirred in the back of his mind.

She is a whore?
Leiard’s surprise at this news was tainted with disapproval.

She has been, from time to time
, Mirar replied defensively.
Always out of necessity
.

And you… you have rescued her from that life before.

Yes.

Mirar realized he had drawn away from Emerahl’s mind. He had left the dream-trance state and was fully awake. From the other bed he heard a sigh, then the sound of the bed creaking.

“Mirar?” Emerahl murmured.

Drawing in a deep breath, he sat up and created a light. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her shoulders drooping. Looking up, she met his eyes then looked away.

“You did it again,” he said.

“I had to.” She sighed. “I was being hunted. By priests.”

“So you became a
whore?
Of all things, you had to choose such a demeaning…” He shook his head. “With your ability to change your age, why resort to that? Why not change into an old crone? Nobody would look twice at you? It’s got to be easier to hide as an old woman than a beautiful—”

“They were looking for a crone,” she told him. “An old woman healer. I couldn’t sell cures. I had to earn money somehow.”

“Then why not be a child? Nobody would suspect a child of being a sorceress, and people would feel compelled to help you.”

She spread her hands. “The change wastes me. You know that. If I’d gone back so far I’d have been too weak to fend for myself. The city was full of desperate children. I needed to be someone the priests wouldn’t want to look at too closely. Someone whose mind they wouldn’t attempt to read.”

“Read?” Mirar frowned. “Priests can’t read minds. Only the White can.”

She looked up at him and shook her head. “You’re wrong. Some can. One of the children I befriended overheard a conversation between priests about the one hunting me. They said he could, and that he was looking for a woman whose mind was shielded. The child wasn’t lying.”

Mirar felt his anger waver. If the gods could give the skill to the White, why not to a priest hunting a sorceress? He sighed. That did not make what she had done any less infuriating.

“So you became young and beautiful. A fine way to avoid drawing attention to yourself.”

She looked up at him and he saw her pupils enlarge with anger. “Are you suggesting I did it out of vanity? Or do you think I’m greedy, that I could not get enough of fine dresses and gold?”

He met and held her eyes. “No,” he said. “I think you could have avoided that life if you’d truly wanted to. Did you even try anything else?”

She did not answer. Her expression told him she hadn’t.

“No,” he said. “It is as if you are drawn to it, though you know it is harmful. I worry about you, Emerahl. I worry that you nurse some unhealthy need to hurt yourself. As if… as if you are punishing yourself out of… out of self-loathing, perhaps.”

Her eyes narrowed. “How
dare
you. You tell me it’s harmful and disapprove of me resorting to it again, but you have never hesitated to buy a whore’s services. I heard you once boast that you were such a regular customer at a particular whorehouse in Aime that they let you have every third night free.”

Mirar straightened. “I am not like their regular customers,” he told her. “I am… considerate.”

“And that makes it different?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Other men are not so considerate. They can be brutal.”

“And I can defend myself.”

“I know, but…”

“But what?”

He spread his hands. “You’re my
friend
. I don’t want you to be unhappy.”

“I don’t find it as miserable an existence as you think I do,” she told him. “It’s not the most enjoyable profession a woman can take—though some women do find it suits them well—but it’s also not the worst. Would you rather I’d sat in the gutter, begging, or worked in some sewer or dump all day for a scrap of bread?”

“Yes,” he said, shrugging.

She leaned forward. “I wonder what Leiard thinks.” She looked into his eyes searchingly. “What do you think, Leiard?”

He had no time to protest. By addressing Leiard, she freed the other mind. Mirar found he had no control of his body; he could only observe.

“I think Mirar is a hypocrite,” Leiard said calmly.

Emerahl smiled with satisfaction. “Really?”

“Yes. He has contradicted himself many times. He told me months ago that he did not want to exist, but now it appears he does.”

She stared at him. “He did?”

“Yes. You believe that he is the real person, and I am not. So now he does too.”

Her gaze wavered. “I’m prepared to accept that the opposite may be true, Leiard, but you must prove it.”

“And if I can’t? Would you sacrifice me in order to keep your friend?”

It was a long time before she replied. “Would you like it better that way?”

Leiard looked down at the floor. “I am of two minds.” He smiled briefly at the unintended joke. “It might benefit others if I no longer existed, but I find I do not like the former leader of my own people. I am not sure if it would be wise to inflict the world with his existence again.”

Her eyebrows rose, then she surprised both Mirar and Leiard by bursting into laughter.

“Looks like I’m not the only person here who hates themself! Are you casting your own shadows on me, Mirar?”

Mirar gasped with relief as control returned. Emerahl gave him an odd look.

“You’re back?”

“Indeed.”

“Saying your names does it. Addressing one or the other. Interesting.” She looked up. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

He shrugged. “You didn’t address Leiard often. That left me in control most of the time.”

“How am I supposed to help you if you aren’t telling me everything?”

“I prefer being in control.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Enough to destroy another person’s mind?”

He did not answer. He had given her enough reasons to distrust him already tonight. She would not believe his answer, and he was not sure he’d believe it either.

“I’m going back to sleep,” she announced. “And I don’t want to be interrupted.”

Lying down, she rolled over. Her back seemed to admonish him.

“Emerahl.”

She did not reply.

“Priests can’t read minds. They can communicate via their rings, but no more. You may have encountered an unusually Gifted priest, or the gods may have given him the skill, but once you were away from him you had no reason to—”

“Go to sleep, Mirar.”

He shrugged, lay down and hoped she’d have forgiven him by the morning.

As the platten slowed again, Danjin let out a long sigh.

“To think that I used to enjoy the Summer Festival,” he muttered. “How do the priests and priestesses endure this?”

Auraya chuckled. “We allow four times as much time to get anywhere as we normally do. Haven’t you encountered festival crowds before?”

“On foot,” he said. “Revellers don’t block the streets where I live—or surround and stop every Temple platten when it passes.”

She smiled. “We can hardly complain about that when their intention is to make a donation.”

The clink of a coin in the platten’s donation box emphasized her point.

Danjin sighed again. “I’m not complaining about that. I just wish they’d leave their donation at the Temple like everyone else, instead of holding up Temple plattens.”

“Donate at the Temple like the wealthy and important?” she asked. “Poor drunken folk rubbing shoulders with rich drunk folk?”

His nose wrinkled. “I suppose we can’t have that.” He paused, then his eyes brightened. “There should be a donation day for wealthy donators and another for the rest.”

She shook her head. “If there was, there would be such a large crowd in the Temple you’d never be able to leave the grounds. When people started approaching plattens years ago it was because the Temple was too crowded. It would be worse now.” She shrugged. “Drunken revellers have always been gripped by a spontaneous need to give us money or gifts. It’s hard to discourage them and trying usually means a longer delay. That’s why we had the donation boxes attached to our platten. It is the best solution.”

“But what would we do if we had to get somewhere urgently?”

“I’d lower the cover and ask them to clear the road.”

“Would they? Half of them are drunk and delirious.”

She laughed. “Yes, they are. It is a celebration, after all.” Tugging aside the flap, she peered outside. “It’s so heartening to see so many happy people. It reassures you that not everyone died in the war, and that people can be cheerful again.”

Danjin subsided into his seat. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. I hadn’t thought of it like that. I guess I am too impatient.”

Abruptly the platten began moving faster. It turned and the sound of coins entering the boxes ceased. Danjin lifted the platten flap on his side of the vehicle.

“At last,” he muttered. “We’ve reached civilization.”

On either side were mansions of the rich. The road to the Temple was the one thoroughfare the city guard kept clear of revellers. Instead it was filled by a long line of highly decorated platten. The wealthy disdained donation boxes, preferring instead to make a great show of their personal visits to the Temple.

“There’s the Timer family,” Danjin said, concern in his voice. “Look at the size of those trunks! They can’t afford to be giving so much away!”

Auraya peered over his shoulder. Extending her senses she read the minds of the old couple in the Tither platten.

“The first trunk is full of pottery, the second of blankets and the third is oil,” she told him. “Fa-Tither carries a modest amount of gold.”

“Ah.” Danjin sighed in relief. “It is all show then. I hope the gods do not mind.”

Auraya laughed. “Of course not! They have never demanded or expected money from their followers. People came up with the idea themselves. We’ve told people that sacrificing income to the gods doesn’t guarantee a place at their side after death, but they still do it.”

“Just in case.” Danjin chuckled. “The Temple would find it difficult if they didn’t, though. How else would they feed, clothe and house priests and priestesses—and undertake charitable projects?”

“We’d work something else out.” Auraya shrugged. “There are other benefits to the tradition, too. One of the farmers in my village gives most of his earnings to the local Temple in summer, then asks for most of it back when he needs it in winter. He says he’d spend it too fast otherwise, and that putting it in the care of the priest is his best protection against robbery.”

“Because priests are likely to be more Gifted than anyone else,” Danjin said.

He looked more relaxed now, Auraya noted. They had come from the hospice, in one of the poorer districts of the city. As a member of the city’s upper class, he had good reason to be uneasy there. If he had been alone, dressed as he was, he would probably have been robbed.

At this time of year he had even more reason to be cautious. The Summer Festival was also referred to as the Festival of the Thieves. Robbers, muggers and pickpockets took advantage of worshippers when they could, either waylaying them on their way to make a donation or breaking into homes in search of the savings stored in preparation for the festival.

The previous year a cunning young thief had made himself a fortune by climbing in under the Temple plattens, drilling a hole into the bottom of the donation boxes, and pocketing the coins. His first successes has inflated his confidence and on the last day of the festival, after stories of the thefts had circulated, he had been caught and beaten to death by enraged worshippers.

“We can’t be far away now,” Danjin muttered, peering out of the platten cover again.

Auraya closed her eyes and searched the thoughts of those around them. From the driver’s mind she read that they were nearing the Temple entrance, then she caught a snatch of anger from a vehicle in front. Looking closer, she learned that the occupant was Terena Spicer, matriarch of one of the most wealthy and powerful families of the city. Auraya was amused and a little disturbed to find the woman’s anger was directed at herself.

Intrigued, she watched as the woman’s thoughts churned. She barely noticed when Danjin informed her that they had passed through the arch and entered the Temple. Only when the platten stopped did she break her concentration. They climbed out. The paving before the Tower was crowded with plattens. Terena Spicer hadn’t emerged from her vehicle yet. Indicating that Danjin should follow, Auraya strode into the Tower.

The enormous hall inside was full of priests, priestesses and the usual crowd of wealthy families talking and gossiping after having deposited their donations. As always, the entrance of a White sent a thrill of excitement through the crowd. Auraya kept her pace swift and her eyes on the room where the donations were presented. Despite this, a man stepped forward, intending to intercept her. To her relief, a priestess moved into his path to prevent him.