Moving further away, she was drawn to the hum of many minds. The Circlian army now marched along the coast. They knew they were a day’s journey from Diamyane. The more experienced priests, priestesses and soldiers looked ahead to the battle with both dread and determination.
Another shift brought her to their destination. Diamyane was populated by scavengers, Dreamweavers and Sennon troops sent ahead to prepare for the army’s arrival. She sought the minds of the Dreamweavers, then searched for Emerahl in their thoughts. Or the woman Emerahl was pretending to be.
There she is.
Tamun smiled at the thoughts of the woman regarding the red-haired stranger. Arleej, official leader of the Dreamweavers, was not sure what to make of Emmea. Mirar had told her to include Emmea in all discussions and plans. The woman was likeable enough, if a bit impatient at times.
Arleej was relating to Emerahl what had happened when she told Juran of the White of Mirar’s decision that he and all Dreamweavers could use their Gifts to protect whichever side they chose.
“He turned white,” Arleej said.
Emerahl chuckled. “What did he say?”
“He accepted our offer of help. I suspect he wanted to refuse. He must have suspicions of treachery, but since the Circlians are weaker already with Mirar joining their enemy, he has to take that risk.”
“You aren’t tempted to turn on the Circlians, are you?”
“No, of course not.” Arleej was amused by the question. “Juran also agreed with my suggestion that some of us follow behind the White when they walk down the Isthmus to meet the Voices, as Mirar is sure to be with the enemy.”
“I’d like to be a part of that group,” Emerahl said. “Mirar sent me to you because I am strong, and I can help redress the balance of power he’s been forced to upset.”
Arleej considered, then nodded. “You’re welcome.”
The conversation turned to practical matters and Tamun wouldn’t be able to dream-link with Emerahl until the woman was asleep, so she moved southward to another mass of minds. The Pentadrian army marched toward the Isthmus. They were half a day from the beginning of the land bridge, but didn’t intend to cross it. It took her longer to find Mirar, as there was only one unshielded mind in his proximity. The woman’s name was Reivan, and her role was as a Companion to the Second Voice, Imenja.
Reivan regarded Mirar with wary respect. She liked his ideals and dislike of violence, but didn’t think they were practical. Knowing she was in the presence of a man over a thousand years old had her more than a little awed. When she regarded the Pentadrian leader her mind filled with conflicting emotions and thoughts: the lingering remains of infatuation, worry, anger and a slowly but steadily growing hatred.
:Tamun? Surim?
Tamun recognized The Gull’s mental voice. Drawing reluctantly away from the Companion, she focused on her fellow immortal.
:Greetings, Gull. Where are you?
:Nearing the Gulf of Sorrow. I shall reach the Isthmus tonight.
:Do you know of the tunnels Emerahl described?
:Yes. I used them often when they were open.
:We just have to hope there’s one underneath the place the White meet the Voices.
:I have thought of a solution to this problem. If I were to collapse a small section of the Isthmus, they would be forced to stand on either side in order to face each other.
:Ah. Doubts crept in as she considered this. But they will wonder who collapsed it and why. It might make the gods suspicious.
:It might, he conceded. I could make it look like a natural occurrence.
:But it would still seem too much of a coincidence.
:Then I can think of only one other solution.
:Oh?
:I will have to carve out a tunnel along the center of the Isthmus, underneath the road.
:That will take time.
:A day or so. I will begin at the center, where the White and Voices are most likely to meet. There is only one drawback.
:What is that?
:It may cause the Isthmus to collapse anyway. Hopefully in a few years’ time, not while I am inside it.
:Then you should be careful, Gull. We will find you if it does. We will dig you out, if we must.
:Then I had best seek lessons on surviving burial from Mirar, he said wryly. I had better go. The roale will forget he is carrying me if I don’t remind him from time to time. I won’t arrive by tonight if he decides to dive.
As his mind faded from hers, Tamun took a few deep breaths. What they were doing was dangerous in more ways than one. It might not even work. But she would try again and again if it meant freedom from the gods.
Some risks were worth taking.
47
The sun had slipped beneath the horizon a short time ago, sinking with steady purpose as if it patiently went through its paces knowing that tomorrow’s battle would come in good time. A glow filled the western sky, in parts strangely colored. As Reivan walked toward it she wondered if a Thinker somewhere knew why the sky at these times could be such improbable colors like green and purple.
Then she reached Imenja and stopped. The Second Voice was staring at the Isthmus, which was bathed in the eerie light of the glowing sky. It stretched away into the gloom toward a barely visible shadow.
Sennon. Northern Ithania.
“They haven’t arrived yet,” Imenja told her.
“Will we cross and take Diamyane?” Reivan asked. The possibility had been discussed in several meetings.
“No. Our advantage lies in remaining here. The Circlians can cross only a few at a time, so we can pick them off easily.”
“And if the White come at the front of the army?”
“Then we Voices will fight them.”
“Making the soldiers unnecessary,” Reivan observed.
Imenja smiled crookedly. “Yes. Which is not a bad thing. War is not kind to unSkilled mortals.”
Reivan shivered. She was an unSkilled mortal. Imenja turned and placed a hand on Reivan’s shoulder.
“Don’t worry. You will be protected.”
“I know.” Reivan nodded, then sighed. “But I will also be useless.”
The glowing sky had dimmed and Imenja’s face was in shadow. Reivan could not see her expression.
“Not to me,” Imenja said, squeezing Reivan’s shoulder. She looked back. “The tent is up. We should join the others.”
They walked back into the camp. What had been a dry, dusty stretch of land was now covered in black pointed shapes, fires flickering like orange stars scattered between. Reivan had regarded the tents in dismay when she first saw them being erected. The five-sided design was an unnecessary complication that some of the domestics were finding hard to work out and the black cloth would trap the heat of the sun. Sometimes she wondered if the Pentadrians took their symbolism too far.
When the sun rose the army wouldn’t be huddling in their overheated tents. They would be spilling blood. Or watching sorcerers throw deadly magic about and hoping they wouldn’t happen to be in the wrong place when it went astray. She thought about what Imenja had said. A fight between only Voices and White sounded too good to be true. But the Servants and priests would not remain out of the battle. They would assist their side with extra magic. Once the Voices defeated the White, or, gods help them, the White defeated the Voices, there would be no point in the Servants or priests continuing the fight. But they might anyway. Just out of loyalty to their gods.