“He knew that he was going to have to ask someone to bind the cut on his head, but he couldn’t bring himself to suffer the scrutiny of a stranger, far less his father, who was certain to comment on his son’s clumsiness.
“He was dizzy, and since he was kneeling in front of the table he rested his arms and then his head on the cold marble. Gradually he slipped into a light doze.”
Tris paused, then said, “What happened next might depend on your point of view. I’ll tell it to you from the boy’s and you can make up your own mind in light of what we’ve seen.
“In his dream, he found himself walking down a white corridor with rooms on either side of him. Glancing into the first one, he saw a shrouded figure lying on a table similar to the one in his room. He couldn’t tell if the figure was alive or dead, and something kept him from entering the room to look more closely. In large relief on the wall above the table was a design of two red dragons intertwined.
“Now, our hero was a learned boy—books were his retreat from his father’s scorn—so he recognized what few would. The dragons were an ancient symbol for Temris, the god of war.
“Believing that he was dreaming, the boy didn’t fight the odd compulsion that drew him down the corridor. As he walked, he saw more rooms with shrouded bodies and the symbols of the old gods on the walls. Most of them he knew, but there were several he’d not seen before.
“The corridor went on and on, and still the boy walked. At last the compulsion pulled him into one of the rooms and he left the corridor.
“He noticed that a heavy layer of dust lay over everything, as if no one had been in the room for a very long time. On the wall was a symbol that he recognized not only from his own readings, but from its liberal use throughout the merchant’s house: the cat of Altis.
“Cautiously, he approached the covered figure on the table. As he did, he noticed that the dust on the shrouds had been disturbed and that the cloths didn’t lie as neatly as their counterparts had, as if the figure who slept beneath had been restless not long ago.
“With dream-born courage, the boy touched the fine blue silk with the intention of removing it. But touch it was all that he did, for it dissolved into nothingness under his fingers; the figure it covered disappeared with it, leaving only an empty table behind.
“As he looked down at the unoccupied table, he noticed first a drop of his blood on the table and then a drop of oil that had escaped the container he held in his shaking hand. The drops mingled as they wouldn’t in the waking world. He couldn’t look away, not even when a deep voice spoke behind him.
“ ‘Who disturbs the rest of the old ones, boy? Who meddles with forces beyond human ken? There is great magic worked on earth again that disturbs the sleepers, and a dragon rides the currents of the sky once more. This is no safe time to walk the halls of the gods and risk awakening them.’
“The boy felt the voice as much as heard it.
“He knew that he was shaking, though he felt no fear; the speaker seemed kindly, even fatherly. He answered slowly, ‘I don’t know about dragons or great magic, but I touched the shroud. I am Terran.’
“As he finished speaking, Terran awoke draped over the altar. Worried about what his father would say about the mess, he took off his tunic and wiped the marble surface as best he could.
“There was an ewer of water on the floor near the door, with a clean cloth folded neatly beside it. He scrubbed the blood off his hands, face and neck before he noticed that there was no cut on his forehead. The only evidence that he’d been wounded at all was in the bloodstained tunic and washcloth and the pinkened water in the bowl.
“Terran emptied the ewer out the window and hid his tunic and the stained washcloth among his clothes.”
Tris drew a deep breath. “That was Terran’s first encounter with the god Altis. In further dream conversations with the night god, Terran was favored with immense power that mimicked the magic used by Winterseine.
“Several months later, Terran—calling himself the Voice of Altis—began to set up an organized religion worshipping Altis with the help of his father.”
“Gods,” swore Rialla. “It wasn’t Winterseine at all.” She thought about the odd way that Winterseine had given in to Terran’s demands to bed her.
Tris spoke quietly, “The only proof that the dream was real is that Terran’s wound disappeared. A small cut in the scalp bleeds freely and heals fast. If the cut was actually above the hairline and very small, it would have been easy to miss it. Moreover, a blow to the head often leads to strange dreams that seem almost real.”
Rialla continued the thought. “Of course he would dream of the old gods in such a setting, given his proficiency with the legends. Everyone knows that oil and blood are common components in spell-making; certainly the son of a magician would.”
Tris picked up the logical discussion. “I understand that many human mages don’t come into full power until after sexual maturity. If he experienced such a phenomenon after his dream, then he would attribute it to the old gods rather than himself—especially someone like Terran, who’d been taught he was useless.”
Rialla rested her chin on her hands and gave him a half smile, though it was too dark for him to see it. “I should be reassured; all that we have said points to the idea that Terran’s power is the product of latent magic—something we are familiar with. But…”
“But,” agreed Tris in a troubled voice, “there is the healing of Tamas’s arm on the way to Winterseine’s keep. I could feel no magic. I thought that a skilled human mage might use magic in such a way that I couldn’t detect it, but I felt the magic in Winterseine’s book from the moment we walked into his study.”
“I can’t feel him with my empathy at all,” added Rialla. There was a slight pause, then she said, “I think Winterseine believes Terran is a prophet. When Winterseine touches me, I can read him. There is an undercurrent of fear in him now that he never had before, when I was his slave. I think… I think that what he’s afraid of is Terran.”
“Do you think Terran really is a prophet?” asked Tris.
“Yes.”
“So do I.”
Rialla was silent for a moment, then she said, “If Terran is really the prophet of Altis, the invasion we are facing is directed by a god. How powerful are the gods anyway?” She was pleased that her voice was steady.
Tris shrugged. “I’ve never had a close conversation with one. We can wait here and you can ask Terran if you like, but I’d prefer to remain ignorant. I understand the gods weren’t strong enough to halt the Wizard Wars.”
“Maybe they didn’t want to,” commented Rialla.
“Now, there’s a cheerful thought,” replied Tris dryly.
Rialla laughed reluctantly. “We’ll get this information to Ren and let him decide what to do with it.”
“Will he believe it?” Tris questioned.
Rialla shrugged, flopped back and pillowed her head on her arms with a sigh, saying, “I don’t know. I don’t think I was ever intended to be a spy. When we get to Sianim, remind me to tell the Spymaster that he ought to stick with the professionals. I seem to have turned a simple information-gathering mission into defying the gods with a man who claims heritage with an obscure, all-but-forgotten race of tree-folk. I’m sure that if I reflect upon it I can explain how it happened, but I really don’t want to think about it that much.”
She caught a flash of white in the gloom as Tris smiled. “I haven’t heard anything outside, so I think I’ll go scout. Let me know if you come to any brilliant conclusions while I’m gone.” He picked a double handful of grasslike stalks out of the satchel and rolled over on his back to shimmy out of the thornberry cave.