Voice Of The Gods (age Of The Five Trilogy, Book 3)

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 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS About the Author Books by Trudi Canavan Copyright About the Publisher MAP PROLOGUE T he 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. 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 en