Bloodshot eyes stared up at her. Lips moved.
“You killed me,” the dead man wheezed.
I used to wake up at this point, she thought. No more, however.
“You killed me,” another voice said. A woman. A priestess. Then another spoke, and another. All around her bodies were moving. Rising, if they could. Dragging themselves forward if they could not. Coming toward her. Chanting their accusation, louder and louder.
“You killed me! You killed me! You killed me!”
She ran, but there was no escaping them. They surrounded her. I used to wake up now, too. Reached out to her. Bore her down into a crush of putrid, rotting bodies. Faces pressed close to hers, spitting and dribbling blood and gore. She felt them press against her chest with their bony fingers, the pressure making it hard to breathe. All the time they uttered the same words.
“Owaya! Owaya!”
What...?
Suddenly she was awake and looking into a pair of large eyes fringed with fine lashes. Eyes that belonged to a veez.
“Owaya,” Mischief repeated aloud, this time with a definite note of satisfaction. He was sitting on her chest, shifting his weight from one paw to another.
“Mischief!” she gasped. As she sat up he leapt off her onto the bed. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then turned to regard the veez.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“Scratch?” he suggested.
She obliged him, enjoying the feel of his soft fur as she scratched all along his back. As he made small noises of pleasure, she considered her nightmares. They were getting worse, not better. What this meant, she couldn’t guess.
Perhaps I should consult a Dreamweaver.
She considered the Dreamweavers who were going to be helping in the hospice. Would they agree to help her, or was that asking too much? Of course they would. They’re obliged to help anyone who asks for it.
What would it be like, then? What did dream-healing involve? A mind link of some sort...
Oh.
She couldn’t risk a mind link. Whoever she linked with might discover her true plans for the Dreamweavers.
I can’t do anything. I’m stuck with these nightmares forever. Lying down again, she cursed under her breath. Serves me right, she thought. How could I even contemplate asking the Dreamweavers for help when I’m working toward their downfall?
Mischief made a sad noise, perhaps sensing her mood. She felt him move closer, then the weight of him against her hip as he curled up beside her. His soft breathing gradually slowed. She listened to it for a while, fighting sleep.
Then she found herself standing under a familiar, heavy black sky...
11
The Parade was full of people despite the heat of the morning sun. Their cheering was exhilarating. Reivan moved to join the other Voices’ Companions, her heart beating a little too fast.
When I am a Companion, experiencing crowds like this will become commonplace, she mused. I wonder how long it will take before it is no longer thrilling.
The Voices descended the main stairs of the Sanctuary. At the base, four sets of four muscular slaves, each controlled by a slave master, waited beside litters. The Voices separated and stepped onto a litter each. As they settled onto the couches, the slaves hauled the litters onto their shoulders and set off down the thoroughfare.
The Companions fell into line behind the litters. None spoke. Reivan let out a sigh of relief as she found that, for the first time in a week, nothing was demanding her attention. She was finally free to think.
Reivan’s days had become hectic and long. Imenja wanted her at her side for part of nearly every day. Sometimes Reivan was only required to observe a meeting or debate, other times she watched as Imenja undertook duties that Reivan would take over once she was given the responsibilities of a Companion. Duties like arranging Imenja’s schedule, accepting or sending gifts or donations, refusing bribes and receiving reports of the tasks given to other Servants.
At the same time, her training continued. Imenja had claimed all the time Reivan would have spent learning to use her Skills if she’d had any - and more. In the time that remained Reivan studied law, history, and the gods. Fortunately, her early years reading everything in the monastery she had grown up in were proving an advantage, and even Drevva admitted Reivan was more knowledgeable than the average new Servant-novice.
Reivan stayed up late and rose early. The list of duties she would have to take on as a Companion was so long now that she began to feel overwhelmed.
“How am I going to do all this?” she had asked Imenja.
Imenja had smiled. “Delegate.”
“Give work to others? But how do I know who to trust?”
“I’ll tell you if they’re not trustworthy, and if I don’t you’ll soon find out who is and who isn’t. I am not going to blame you for someone else’s mistakes.”
“And if nobody wants to do it?”
Imenja had laughed. “I think you’ll find plenty of Servants willing and eager to help. Like you, they’re here to serve the gods.”
“Are you saying I can actually reward people with work?”
“Yes. So long as you don’t make them see it that way. You are favoring them over others with a task few would be trusted with.”
There were many rites and ceremonies that a Companion needed to be present at, even though they had no place in the rite. Reivan suspected that they attended in order to fetch and carry if such a need arose. Which was probably why nobody had protested whenever Imenja took her along.
Today she would attend the Rite of the Sun. She had never observed or participated in the fertility ceremony before. It was for married couples. Rich married couples. Only participants and Servants were present for the whole ceremony, but Voices attended the beginning of the rite.
The rite was the source of much curiosity for young Pentadrians - and all foreigners - because few ever talked about it. The Servants involved were sworn to protect the privacy of the participants, and participants were rarely willing to describe their experiences. Avvenans, as a people, considered talking of the intimacies of one’s marriage to be crass and impolite.
This reluctance of Pentadrians to talk about the rite usually spurred foreigners into wild speculation. Reivan had encountered plenty of Sennons during her time mapping the mines in Northern Ithania who believed her people indulged in ritual orgies. She had explained that only married couples attended, but that did not convince foreigners there was nothing lewd about the rite.
So long as it involves sex, she thought, they’ll think it’s depraved. Sennons are even more prudish than Pentadrians. I wonder if Circlians are the same.
The curved wall of the Temple of Hrun appeared ahead. Reivan regarded the distant shadows of the arched entrance with longing. It was growing hotter, and she was discovering how uncomfortable her black robes could be in the full glare of the sun.
She looked enviously at the slaves walking before her, who wore nothing but short trousers. Their tanned skin glittered with droplets of perspiration. A rumor she had heard recently came back to her. One of the freed slaves of the army had married a Servant. She wondered what crime the man had done to earn himself a life of slavery in the first place. Surely the Servant wouldn’t have married him if he was a rapist or murderer.