The White had questioned the gods after the battle. Chaia had told them it was possible that new gods had risen since the War. He and his fellow gods were investigating.
She had discussed and debated the possibilities with her fellow White many times since then. Rian was reluctant to accept that new gods had come into existence. Normally fervent and confident, he was upset, even angered, by the prospect of new gods. She was beginning to understand that he needed the gods to be an unchangeable force in the world. A force he could rely on to always be the same.
Mairae, in contrast, was unconcerned. The idea that there were new gods in the world did not bother her. “We serve our five, that’s all that matters,” she had said once.
Juran and Dyara were not convinced that the “god” Auraya had seen was real. Yet they were more concerned than Mairae. As Juran had pointed out, real gods were a great threat to Northern Ithania. He had assumed that the Pentadrians had claimed that their false gods had ordered them to war in order to gain the obedience of their people. Now it was possible that these gods were real and had encouraged - perhaps even ordered - the Pentadrians to invade Circlian lands.
They had all agreed that if one Pentadrian god existed, then the rest probably did too. No god would allow his followers to serve false gods in tandem with himself.
Auraya frowned. I’m convinced what I saw was a real god, so I must believe there are five new gods in this world. But surely that’s...
“Auraya?”
She jumped and looked up at Danjin. “Yes?”
“Did you hear anything I just said?”
She grimaced apologetically. “No. Sorry.”
He smiled and shook his head. “You don’t have to apologize to me. Anything that can distract you so thoroughly must be important.”
“Yes, but it is nothing that hasn’t distracted me a thousand times before. What were you saying?”
Danjin smiled and patiently began repeating what he had been telling her.
Emerahl sat very still.
From all around her came the sounds of the forest at night: rustling leaves, the chatter and whistling of birds, the creak of branches... and from somewhere not too far away, the faint sound of pattering feet.
She tensed as the sound came closer. A shadow moved in the starlight.
What is it? Something edible, I hope. Come closer, little creature...
It was downwind of her, but that should not matter. She had a magical barrier around her, keeping her odors to herself.
And there are plenty of those, she thought ruefully. After a month of travelling, with no change of clothes, anyone would smell bad. How Rozea would laugh to see me now. Her whorehouse favorite covered in muck, sleeping on the hard ground, her only companion a mad Dreamweaver.
She thought of Mirar, sitting by the fire several hundred paces behind her. He was probably muttering to himself, arguing with the other identity in his head.
Then the creature moved into sight and all thought of Mirar fled her mind.
A breem! she thought. A tasty, fat little breem!
A shot of stunning magic killed it instantly. She rose, picked up the little creature and began preparing it for cooking. Skinning, gutting and finding a good roasting stick took up all her attention. When it was ready, she started back to the campfire, stomach rumbling in anticipation.
Mirar was just as she had pictured him. He stared at the fire, lips moving, unaware of her approach. She chose her steps carefully, hoping to hear a little of what he was saying before he noticed her and fell silent.
“... really matter if she forgives you or not. You cannot see her again.”
“It matters. It might matter to our people.”
“Perhaps. But what will you say? That you weren’t yourself that night?”
“It is the truth.”
“She won’t believe you. She knew I existed within you, but never saw enough to understand what that meant. I stayed quiet while you two were together. Do you think I was doing it out of good manners?”
He fell silent.
“She,” eh? Emerahl thought. Who is “she”? Someone he has wronged, if this talk of forgiveness is a clue. Was this woman the source of all his troubles, or just some of them? She smiled. Typical Mirar.
She waited, but he did not speak again. Her stomach growled. He looked up and she started forward as if just arriving.
“A successful hunt,” she told him, holding up the breem.
“Hardly fair on the wildlife,” he said. “Pitted against a great sorceress.”
She shrugged. “No less fair than if I had a bow and was a good shot. What have you been doing?”
“Thinking how nice it would be if there were no gods.” He sighed wistfully. “What’s the point of being a powerful immortal sorcerer when you can’t do anything useful for fear of attracting their attention?”
She set about propping the breem over the fire. “What useful acts do you want to do that would attract their attention?”
He shrugged. “Just... whatever was useful at the time.”
“Useful to whom?”
“Other people,” he said with a touch of indignation. “Like... like unblocking a road after a landslide. Like healing.”
“Nothing for yourself?”
He sniffed. “Occasionally. I might need to protect myself.”
Emerahl smiled. “You might.” Satisfied that the breem was set in place, she sat back on her heels. “There will always be gods, Mirar. We just managed to get on their bad side of late.”
Mirar laughed bitterly. “I got on their bad side. I provoked them. I tried to stop them deceiving people and taking control by spreading the truth about them. But you and the others...” He shook his head. “You did nothing. Nothing except be powerful. For that they’ve called us ‘Wilds’ and had their minions kill us.”
She shrugged. “The gods have always kept us in check. You can still heal others without attracting attention.”
He wasn’t listening. “It’s like being locked up in a box. I want to get out and stretch!”
“If you do, kindly do it somewhere away from me. I still like being alive.” She looked up. “Are you sure the Siyee won’t see our fire?”
“They won’t,” he told her. “It’s not safe flying in these close parts of the mountains on moonless nights. Their eyesight is good, but not that good.”
She readjusted the speared breem on its supports over the fire. Sitting back, she looked at Mirar. He was leaning back against a tree trunk. The yellow light of the fire enhanced the angle of his jaw and brows and turned his blue eyes a pale shade of green.
As he turned to meet her gaze, she felt a thrill of mingled pain and joy. She had never thought to see him again, and here he was, alive and...
... not quite himself. She looked away, thinking of the times she had tried to question him. He could not tell her how it was that he was alive. He had no memory of the event that was supposed to have killed him, though he had heard of it. This made the claims of the other identity - Leiard - more believable. Leiard believed that he carried an approximation of Mirar’s personality in his mind, formed out of the large number of link memories of the dead Dreamweaver leader that he had received during mind links with other Dreamweavers.
But this is Mirar’s body, she thought. Oh, he’s a lot thinner and his white hair makes him look a lot older, but his eyes are the same.