The Last Of The Wilds (10 page)

Emerging into the cavern, she saw that Mirar was lying on his bed, staring at the roof high above. There was an air of melancholy about him. He turned his head to look at her, then slowly sat up.

“Dinner,” she said as she reached him. He said nothing. Setting the buckets down, she looked at the large, smooth boulder she had rolled into the cave two days ago. What had been a shallow natural depression in the stone was now a deep hollow. “Thank you.”

He looked at her, but did not speak.

Leiard must be in control
, she decided. It wasn’t the melancholy that told her. Mirar was also prone to low moods, but he would have made a quip or comment as soon as she had appeared. Mirar was, by far, the more verbose of her two companions.

She poured some of the water into the hollow then began tearing the leaves into strips.

“You’re not going to cook those, are you?”

She looked up to find him regarding the ears of fungi dubiously.

“No.” She smiled. “I’ll dry them later. For my new collection.”

“Your collection of…?”

“Medicines. Cures. Amusements.”

“Ah.” His brows rose. She sensed thoughtfulness, then disapproval. The latter, she guessed, was at the realization of what she meant by “amusements.”

Talking to Leiard was like constantly reminding an elderly man of information he’d forgotten. No doubt he had accessed Mirar’s memories about her even as she had answered, learning that she sometimes worked as a healer and had occasionally been a seller of concoctions for the entertainment of rich nobles. He could also be a bit judgmental.

It wasn’t easy to make conversation with Leiard. He could not answer the questions she normally asked when she wanted to get to know somebody. Questions like: “
How long have you been a Dreamweaver? Where were you born? Parents? Siblings?
”

Her reluctance to believe he was a real person also held her back. He was probably an aberration—a personality that had somehow become grafted to Mirar’s. Though Mirar could not remember why or how this had happened, or if he’d welcomed the grafting or not, he was clearly not happy with the situation. She worried that by talking to Leiard, she might strengthen his sense of identity and so make his hold on Mirar stronger, but she also doubted Leiard was going to go away if she simply ignored him.

Perhaps I need to talk to him in a way that weakens him instead. I could try to make him doubt his sense of identity. That might help Mirar regain full control.

But what if she was wrong? What if Leiard was the real person and Mirar was just a residue of link memories—as Leiard believed? Was there any way of proving who was the true owner of that body?

She stopped working and stared at the stone depression full of water. Mirar’s face was reflected in the surface, but the expression on it belonged to someone else.

Mirar is a Wild. He has Gifts no ordinary sorcerer has. The ability to halt the aging of his body. The ability to heal perfectly, with no scarring. If he can still do these things then he must be Mirar.

She could test him. A few exercises to prove he was a Wild might do it.

Unless Leiard is a Wild too.

She shook her head. While not impossible, it was too great a coincidence. What chance was there that a new Wild had been born looking just like Mirar?

Unless… unless he
hadn’t
been born looking like Mirar, but, having gained so many link memories that he was no longer sure of his identity, he had subconsciously started to change his appearance. Mirar had told her he had looked considerably different two years ago.

She shuddered at the thought. To have one’s own personality slowly subverted by another’s to that extent…

Yet at the same time she felt a selfish elation. Did she really care if someone she didn’t know lost their identity if it meant she got Mirar back?

I am an evil, evil woman
, she thought.

She lifted the fungi out of the bucket and set it aside. In the bottom of the container were several freshwater shrimmi lying in a finger-width of water, their feelers still waving weakly. Drawing a little magic, she heated the water in the stone depression. When it was boiling rapidly, she grabbed the shrimmi and tossed them in the water, two at a time. They gave a high-pitched shriek as they died, but it was a quicker death than letting them slowly suffocate in the air.

Leiard recoiled slightly, then leaned closer. She sensed a sudden lightening of his mood and when he looked up at her and smiled she knew Mirar was back.

“Mmm. Dinner looks good. What’s for dessert?”

“Nothing.”

He pouted. “I sit here slaving over the cookware all day and you can’t even find me a bit of fruit or honey?”

“I could get you some flame berries. I’ve heard they’re quite sweet—on the tongue.”

He grimaced. “No, thank you. I prefer to be blissfully unaware of my intestines and their function.”

She lifted the shrimmi out of the water then added the shredded leaves. They wilted quickly. When they were cooked to her satisfaction, she picked up two wooden plates and divided the meal. From jars nearby she took some salt and toasted nuts and sprinkled them over the vegetable—a little seasoning for a bland but nutritious dish.

Mirar accepted a plate and ate with his usual enthusiasm. This was one habit Leiard also exhibited. They both appreciated food. Emerahl smiled. There was something lacking in a person who didn’t enjoy good food.

“What else did you do while I was out?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Thought. Talked to myself.” His nose wrinkled. “Argued with myself.”

“Oh? Who won?”

“I did, I think.”

“What did you argue about?”

He peeled a shrimmi and tossed its shell into a bucket. “Who owns this body.”

“What did you conclude?”

“I do.” He looked down. “I recognize it. You recognize it. Therefore it must be mine.”

She smiled. “I thought I’d come up with a way to prove that today. If you could prove you were a Wild, you would know that your body was yours.”

He chuckled. “And?”

“What if Leiard is a new Wild who has been infected with your link memories and you have been using his powers to change his body to make it look like your own?”

“Infected?” He looked hurt. “That’s not a flattering way to look at it.”

“No,” she agreed. She met his eyes and held them.

He looked away. “It is possible. I don’t know. I wish I could remember.”

She sensed his frustration and felt sympathy. Then she felt a flash of inspiration. “Memory. Perhaps that is the key. You must regain those memories you’ve lost in order to know who you are.”

Mirar looked uneasy. “If all I am is a manifestation of link memories there will be nothing to regain.”

Standing up, she began to pace back and forth. “Yes, but if you are not, you will have memories that Leiard can’t possibly have.”

“Like what?”

She drew in a deep breath. “The tower dream. I suspect it is a memory of your death.”

“A dream of death that proves I’m alive?” He smiled crookedly. “How would that prove this is my body? It might simply be another link memory. I might have projected the experience to another, who passed it on to others, who passed it on to Leiard.”

“But neither you nor Leiard recall having this dream.”

“No.” He looked thoughtful. “Yet you believe I’m the source.”

She sat down. “The dream grew stronger the closer I came to you. We are now far from other people, yet the dream is still vivid. I only dream it when you are also asleep.”

“How could I be projecting a dream I don’t know I’m having?” he asked, though from his tone she knew he already guessed the answer. He was, after all, well versed in the ways of dreams.

“We don’t always remember our dreams,” she reminded him. “And this is a dream you may not want to remember.”

“So if I made myself remember the dream I might remember other things. Like why there is another person in my head.”

“That shouldn’t be so hard for the founder of the Dreamweavers.”

He chuckled. “I have a reputation to live up to.”

“Yes.” She held his gaze. “A reputation that hasn’t diminished over the last hundred years. If you are Mirar, the gods aren’t exactly going to be declaring a festival day to welcome you back. It’s time I started teaching you how to hide your mind. Shall we begin now?”

Nodding resignedly, he put aside his empty plate.

Dreamweaver Elder Arleej poured two glasses of ahm. She carried them to the chairs by the fire and handed one to Neeran. The old Dreamweaver accepted the drink gratefully and gulped it down.

Arleej took a sip and watched her old friend closely. He had said nothing at the news, just moved to a seat and collapsed into it. Lowering herself into the opposite chair, she set the glass aside.

“So what do you think we should do?”

Neeran pressed his hands to his face. “Me? I can’t make this sort of decision.”

“No. You can’t. Last I recall, you weren’t the leader of the Dreamweavers.”

He removed his hands and gave her a withering look. “Then why do you always follow my advice?”

She chuckled. “Because it’s always good.”

He grimaced. “I want to advise caution, but a part of me wants us to snatch up this opportunity before it turns out to be another whim of Auraya’s and she finds something else to occupy her.”

Arleej frowned. Sometimes she almost regretted telling Neeran of Leiard’s affair with Auraya of the White. It had lowered his opinion of Auraya. His disapproval reminded her to not be too enchanted by this White who favored Dreamweavers. When Neeran had declared Auraya was the source of Leiard’s downfall, he was not far from the truth.

Though where Leiard was now, Arleej could not guess. He had disappeared after the battle and she had not been able to contact him via dream links. She had been forced to take on Jayim’s training, though she hadn’t regretted it yet. The boy was proving to be an adept and charming student.

Whether Auraya was the reason for Leiard’s disappearance or not, it appeared she still wanted to encourage peace and tolerance between Circlians and Dreamweavers. This latest offer—to start a hospice in Jarime in which Dreamweavers and healer priests and priestesses worked together—was both startling and well-timed. Circlians had seen the good Dreamweavers had done for the wounded on the battlefield. The heathens had proven their worth to the healer priests and priestesses. It made sense that the best push toward peace and tolerance would be in the direction of healing.

“But what’s the catch?” Arleej said aloud.

Neeran looked at her and smiled crookedly. “The catch?”

“Yes. Will Dreamweavers decide the Circlian way of life is better and leave us to join them?”

The old man chuckled. “Or will Circlians decide they prefer our way of life, and we’ll have too many new students to teach?”

She picked up her glass, took a sip, then set it down again. “Just how closely will our people and theirs work? If they have suddenly decided that our medicines and healing methods are worthwhile, will they want to adopt them?”

“Probably. But we have never kept them a secret before.”

“No. And I doubt their interest or tolerance extends to our mind-linking skills.”

Neeran’s nose wrinkled. “There is still a law against dream-linking in most of Northern Ithania. Dreamweavers should avoid linking in any way with their patients if Circlians are observing. I doubt the White’s intention is to trick us into criminal acts so they can lock us away, but we should still exercise caution in these matters.”

“Yes,” she agreed. She turned to regard him. “It sounds as if you are advising me to agree to the offer.”

He met her eyes, then looked away. Slowly he began to nod. “Yes. But… seek the agreement of the others.”

“Very well. We will vote on it. I will dream link with leaders in other lands tonight.” She picked up her glass and handed it to Neeran. “I will need a clear mind.”

He took the glass from her, but didn’t drink. Instead he looked at her, an odd expression on his face.

“I have a terrible feeling that we face a moment of great change. Either we will miss a wonderful opportunity to prove our worth to the people of Northern Ithania or we will make ourselves redundant.”

Arleej shook her head. “Even if the Circlians surpass us in healing, even if they learn to heal through dreams and mind links, they can never be all that we are. Those that seek the truth will always come to us.”

“Yes.” He smiled and raised the glass. “Here’s to link memories.”

A week had not improved the mood of the Servants. Reivan found herself wondering several times a day if their coldness was directed only at her. Conversations ended when she drew near. When she approached a Servant with a question or request she was dealt with quickly and dismissively. Sometimes when she passed two Servants in a corridor, one would lean across to the other and murmur something.

She told herself she was simply not used to the Servants’ ways. The Servants of the monastery she had grown up in had been quiet and reserved, but she had become accustomed to more stimulating company in recent years. The Thinkers might not have respected her, but she could always engage some of them in conversation—or at least a debate. She was used to being among livelier, friendlier people, that was all.

Dedicated Servant Drevva and the other Servants who were testing her knowledge and abilities were treating her fairly, acknowledging her strengths and not making too much of her weaknesses, even her obvious lack of Skills. The other hopeful entrants to the Sanctuary were politely friendly in that way young people were to those not of the same age.

The Sanctuary baths more than made up for her cramped little room. Cleanliness was considered essential for a Servant of the Gods, and an hour’s soaking, scouring and rinsing each morning was deemed necessary for every man and woman. Feeling refreshed, Reivan dressed in the plain clothes the Sanctuary had provided her with, then stepped out of the room. As she passed a doorway she overheard a snatch of conversation from the steam-wreathed soaking room within.