Trudi Canavan - Age of the Five 03 - Voice of the Gods

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VoiceoftheGods
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VoiceoftheGods
Voice of the Gods
TRUDI CANAVAN
To my Pa, “Wink” Dauncey,
who loved to make things
Contents
Map
Prologue
PART ONE
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15
PART TWO
16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
PART THREE
37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51
Epilogue
Glossary
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VoiceoftheGods
MAP
PROLOGUE
The man staggering through the hospice door was covered in blood. It streaked his face and clothing,
and leaked from between fingers pressed to his brow. As the occupants of the greeting hall saw him they
fell silent, then the noise and activity resumed. Someone would take care of him.
Looks like that someone will be me this time, Priestess Ellareen thought as she glanced at the other
healers. All priests, priestesses and Dreamweavers were occupied, though Dreamweaver Fareeh’s
bandaging of his patient’s arm had quickened.
When the newcomer saw her approaching he looked relieved.
“Welcome to the hospice,” she said. “What is your name?
“Mal Toolmaker.”
“What happened to you?”
“Robbed.”
“Let me see that.” He reluctantly allowed her to lift his hand from his brow. A cut to the bone seeped
more blood. She pressed his hand back over the wound. “It needs some stitches.”
His gaze slid to the nearest Dreamweaver. “You’ll do it?”
She suppressed a sigh and indicated that he should follow her down the corridor. “Yes. Come with me.”
It was not unheard of for a visitor to the hospice to request a Circlian healer, but it was unusual. Most
who came here were prepared to accept any help. Those who did not like or trust Dreamweavers went
elsewhere.
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Dreamweavers worked with Circlian priests and priestesses readily enough, and vice versa. They all
knew they were healing many people who would not have received any help before. But a century of
prejudice against Dreamweavers could not be erased in a few months. Ella had not expected it to be. Nor
did she even want it to be. Dreamweavers did not worship the gods, so their souls died when their bodies
did. She had great respect for them as healers—nobody who worked alongside them could deny being
impressed by their knowledge and skill—but their dismissive, distrustful view of the gods irritated her.
I don’t approve of blind intolerance either. The tendency in some people to fear those different from
themselves to the point of irrational hatred disturbed her more than the common violence and miserable
poverty that brought most patients to the hospice.
Recently a new group that called themselves “true Circlians” had begun harassing the hospice workers.
Their arrogant belief that their worship of the gods was more worthy than hers irritated her even more
than the Dreamweavers’ indifference. The only issue she agreed with them on was the Pentadrians.
Unlike Pentadrians, Dreamweavers never claimed to follow gods—gods that didn’t exist—or used that
deception to convince a continent of people that Circlians were heathens and deserved to be
exterminated.
At least this man isn’t too proud to seek our help, she thought as she led him down the corridor into an
unoccupied treatment room and directed him to sit on the end of a bench. Scooping water into a bowl
from a trough of constantly flowing water at one end of the room, she warmed it with magic. She took
some cloth from a basket, shook a few drops of wound-cleaning oil onto it, dipped it into the water and
cleaned the man’s face. Then she began stitching the cut.
A young priest, Naen, stepped into the doorway when she had nearly finished.
“Your mother just arrived, Priestess Ella.”
She frowned. “Tell her I’ll see her as soon as I’m finished with this patient.” Yranna, make her stay put
until I’m ready. And let her not be in one of her moods.
:Naen will make sure she does not interrupt you, Ellareen, a voice assured her.
Ella straightened and looked around. There was no sign of the woman she had heard. Am I hearing
voices, like that crazy old man who comes in here all the time?
:No, you’re not crazy. You’re as sane as most mortals. Saner, even. Even if you do talk to me all the
time.
:Talk to…are you…Yranna?
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:That’s right.
:It can’t be.
:Why not?
:Well…you’re a god. A goddess. Why would you talk to me?
:I have a task for you.
A thrill of both excitement and fear ran down Ella’s spine. At the same time she heard one of the priests
in the greeting room raise his voice.
“There is a crowd blocking the street outside. They won’t let us leave the hospice…no, we can’t…best
to wait it out.”
Not the “true Circlians” again, she thought as she tied the last stitch.
:Yes. They have surrounded the hospice.
Ella sighed, then felt a chill of realization.
:But…this blockade must be different to the others, or you wouldn’t be asking me to perform a task for
you.
:That’s right.
:What is it?
:I want you to immobilize the man you are treating. Use magic, drugs—whatever it takes.
Ella froze and looked at the man sitting before her. He stared back at her, his pupils wide. It wasn’t just
the pain making him edgy, she realized. It was fear.
Her mouth went dry and her heart began to race. He might be more Gifted than her. He was certainly
physically stronger than her. If this went wrong…
Don’t think about it, she told herself. When the gods ask for something to be done, I can only do my best
to oblige them.
The force of her magic knocked him against the wall, driving air from his lungs. Pushing him down onto
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the bench, she held him there, hoping that he was too caught up in fighting for air to use any Gifts he
might have.
But he’ll recover his wits soon enough. Yranna suggested drugs….
Grabbing a bottle of sleep vapor oil, she poured some onto a cloth and held it against his nose until his
eyes glazed over. It would subdue him for several minutes, but what then? The blockade might last for
hours.
I need a sleep inducer. She searched the room and found a nearly empty jar of sleepease powder. Mixing
up a thin draft from the remnants, she carefully poured it down his throat. It roused him to a semi-
conscious state; he coughed, then swallowed the mixture before subsiding into unconsciousness again.
She stood back to assess her handiwork, and realized she had no idea how long such a small dose of the
drug would work for. A half-cupful induced a full night’s sleep. The dose she’d given might last an
hour, if she was lucky. She could find more sleepease, but it was dangerous and difficult to administer to
a fully unconscious patient. It might get into his lungs. She looked down at the man.
Yranna said to immobilize you, she thought, not kill you. What did you have planned, anyway, Mal
Toolmaker?
On impulse, she grabbed a few strips of bandages, tied his hands and feet and gagged him. To hide this,
she took a blanket and covered the man, leaving only the top of his head showing.
But this would not stop him attracting attention when he woke up. The others will want to know why I
did this. What am I going to tell them? She was not sure they would believe her if she told them the
goddess had instructed her to immobilize a patient. Well, they might eventually, but in the meantime
they’ll probably set him free to do whatever he intends to do.
He’d suffered a blow to the head, so it would be plausible to say he’d experienced dizziness or
disorientation. Sleep drugs were not the usual treatment, however. She would have to come up with
other ways to explain that.
“Ella!” a familiar voice called from within the corridor.
Ella spun around. Her mother must have slipped away from Priest Naen. She hurried out of the room
before the woman could discover her with a bound and gagged patient.
In the corridor a thin graying woman wrapped in a clean, well-made tawl of fine cloth, scowled
disapprovingly as she saw Ella.
“Ella. At last. I need to have a little talk with you.”
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“So long as it is little,” Ella said, keeping her attitude businesslike. “Come back to the greeting hall.”
“You must stop working here,” her mother told her in a low voice as she followed Ella. “It’s too
dangerous. It’s bad enough knowing you’re constantly under the influence of these heathens, but now
it’s worse. The rumors are all over the city. I’m surprised you haven’t already had the sense to leave this
—”
“Mother,” Ella interrupted. “What are you talking about?”
“Mirar is back,” her mother replied. “Or haven’t you heard?
“Obviously not,” Ella said.
“He was—is—the leader of the Dreamweavers. A Wild, you know. They say he wasn’t killed a century
ago; he survived. He’s been in hiding and now he’s returned.”
“Who says this?” Ella asked, trying not to sound too skeptical.
“Everybody—and don’t give me that look. He’s been seen by many people. And the White aren’t
denying it.”
“Have they had a chance to?”
“Of course they have. Now, you listen to me. You can’t work here any more. You have to stop!”
“I’m not abandoning people who need my help because of a rumor.”
“It’s not rumor!” her mother exclaimed, forgetting that she had already called the claims of Mirar’s
return such. “It is the truth! What if he comes here? Think what he might do to you! You might not even
recognize him. He might be working here now, in disguise! He might seduce you!”
Ella managed, with difficulty, to keep the smile from her face. Seduce indeed! “Dreamweavers do not
interest me, Mother.”
But the woman wasn’t listening. As the possible threats to Ella’s person grew more preposterous, Ella
steered her mother toward a bench in the greeting hall.
“And now look what’s happened,” her mother said abruptly, sitting down. “Because he’s returned, we’re
stuck in here. Isn’t there a back door to this place? Can’t we—”
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“No. When this happens there are always troublemakers waiting outside the back entrance.”
“If you were a high priestess they wouldn’t dare.”
Ella smothered a sigh. Tell me, Yranna, are all mothers like this? Are they ever satisfied with their
offspring? If I managed to become a high priestess would she decide I ought to be a White? If by some
miracle I became a White, would she start nagging me to become a god?
She gave her mother the usual answer. “If I were a high priestess I would have no time to see you at all.”
Her mother shrugged and turned away. “We hardly see you anyway.”
Only every second or third day, Ella thought. How neglectful I am. How deprived are my parents. If I
ever get like this, she thought, please, Yranna, have someone kill me.
“Have you heard who is going to replace Auraya?” her mother asked.
“No.”
“Surely you must have heard something by now.”
How is it she can make even that sound like a failing?
“As you’ve pointed out so many times before, I am only a lowly priestess, unworthy of notice or respect,
or even the deepest of Circlian secrets,” Ella replied dryly, expecting to be scolded for her sarcasm.
But her mother wasn’t listening. “It’ll be one of the high priests,” her mother said, mostly to herself.
“We need someone strong—not some frivolous young girl with a liking for heathens. The gods did right
to kick that Auraya girl out of the White.”
“She wasn’t kicked out. She resigned to help the Siyee.”
“That’s not what I heard.” Her mother’s eyes shone with glee at the gossip she was privy to. “I heard she
refused to do what the gods asked of her, and they took her powers from her.”
Ella gritted her teeth. “Well, I talk to Yranna all the time, and she mentioned nothing about that. Besides,
a good healer doesn’t spend work hours gossiping.”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed and her chin rose. Before she could speak, however, Ella heard her name
called. She looked up and felt her stomach sink as she saw Priest Naen and Priest Kleven approaching.
Both were frowning.
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“What happened to the man with the cut brow, Ella?” Kleven asked.
“He…he became angry when he heard we were trapped here.”
“So you sedated him?”
Leaving her mother sitting on the bench, she rose and hurried over to Kleven, lowering her voice.
“Yes. He was…very angry. I used sleep vapor, and when he showed no ill effects I gave him a tiny dose
of sleepease.”
“Sleepease? On a man suffering a head blow?” Kleven exclaimed quietly. He shook his head and started
toward the corridor. Ella felt her heart skip a beat, and hurried after him.
“Anyone suffering a head injury who displays strange behavior should be watched closely,” Kleven told
her as he entered the room. He drew the blanket from Mal Toolmaker’s head, exposing the gag.
“What is this?” he said. Pulling the blanket away, he exclaimed as the bandages tying the man’s hands
and feet were revealed.
“He attacked me,” she told him.
He looked at her sharply. “Are you all right?”
She shrugged. “Yes. He didn’t touch me.”
“You should have told me about this.”
“I was going to but…Mother distracted me.”
He nodded, then turned back to the unconscious man. A chill ran down her back as he began to untie the
bandages. “Is that wise?” she asked hesitantly.
“Naen will watch him. How much sleepease did you give him?”
“Not much. A small spoon’s worth.”
The man’s eyes fluttered in reaction to Kleven’s touch. He wasn’t waking up, but he would soon.
“Stop,” she found herself saying. “You can’t let him wake up. You have to drug him again.”
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Kleven turned to stare at her questioningly. “Why?”
She sighed. “It’s incredible, but you have to believe me. I was warned about him and ordered to
immobilize him by…” She grimaced. “I know you’ll find this hard to believe—by Yranna.”
Kleven’s eyebrows rose. “The goddess?”
“Yes. She spoke to me. In my mind. And no, I don’t usually hear voices in my head.”
The priest considered her thoughtfully. She saw the doubts in his eyes, but could not tell whether he
hesitated to believe her or to risk acting against a god’s orders.
“How am I to know you’re not making this up?”
“I can’t prove it, if that is what you mean. But I can point out that I have never acted with anything but
good sense before—or shown signs of madness.”
“You haven’t,” Kleven agreed. “But it does not make sense that Yranna would speak to you but not the
rest of us. If this man is a danger to the hospice, we all need to know.”
“That puzzled me, too,” she admitted. “Perhaps the danger has passed…but I’m not willing to take that
risk. Are you?”
Kleven looked at the sleeping man dubiously.
“Can I offer any assistance?”
They turned to find Dreamweaver Fareeh standing in the doorway. Ella groaned inwardly. Kleven
hadn’t finished untying the bindings, and as the Dreamweaver noticed them his eyebrows rose.
“A troublesome patient?”
Kleven looked at Ella. “In more ways than one.”
The Dreamweaver looked at the sleeping man, then at each of them, and nodded. He began to move
away. Kleven sighed. “Ella here says she was instructed by Yranna to immobilize him.”
Ella turned to stare at the priest in surprise.
“Ah,” was all Fareeh said.
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