Priestess of the White

1

Though Danjin Spear had entered Jarime’s Temple on several occasions before, today he felt as if he were arriving for the first time. In the past he had visited on behalf of others or in order to perform minor services as a translator. This time was different; this time he was here to begin what he hoped was the most prestigious job of his career.

No matter where this led him, even if he failed or his duties proved tedious or unpleasant, this day would be imprinted on his memory forever. He found himself taking more notice of his surroundings than he usually did - perhaps in order to memorize them for future reflection. Perhaps only because I’m so anxious, he thought, this journey feels as if it’s taking forever.

A platten had been sent for him. The small two-wheeled vehicle rocked gently in time with the gait of the arem pulling it, slowly passing other vehicles, servants and soldiers, as well as rich men and women strolling about. Danjin bit his lip and resisted asking the man perched in the small driver’s seat to urge the docile creature into a faster pace. All of the Temple servants had a quiet dignity that discouraged most people from ordering them about. Perhaps this was because their demeanor reminded one of priests and priestesses, and one certainly didn’t order them about.

They were nearing the end of a long, wide road. Large two- and three-story houses lined both sides, a contrast to the jumble of apartments, shops and warehouses that made up most of the city. Houses on Temple Road were so expensive that only the most wealthy could afford them. Though Danjin was a member of one of the wealthiest families in Jarime, none of his relatives lived here. They were traders and had as much interest in the Temple and religion as they had in the market and their dinner: a basic necessity not worth making a fuss over, unless there was wealth to be made from it.

Danjin thought differently, and had for as long as he could remember. Value could be measured in things other than gold, he believed. Things like loyalty to a good cause, law, a civilized code of behavior, art, and the pursuit of knowledge. All things which his father believed could be bought or ignored.

The platten reached the White Arch that spanned the entrance to the Temple and relief carvings of the five gods loomed over Danjin. Grooves filled with gold did a pretty job of depicting the glowing light that spilled from them when they took their visible forms. I know what Father would say about this: If money doesn’t matter to the gods, why isn’t their Temple made from sticks and clay?

The platten continued through the arch and the full glory of the Temple appeared. Danjin sighed with appreciation. He had to admit he was glad it wasn’t made of sticks and clay. To his left was the Dome, an enormous half-sphere in which ceremonies were held. High arches around its base allowed access to the inside, and gave the impression that the Dome was floating just above the ground. Inside the Dome was the Altar, where the White communed with the gods. Danjin had not seen it, but perhaps in his new role he would gain the opportunity.

Beside the Dome stood the White Tower. The tallest building ever to have existed, it appeared to stretch up to the clouds. It didn’t, of course. Danjin had been in the highest rooms and knew the clouds were far out of reach. The illusion must make a strong impression on visitors, however. He could see the benefits of impressing and humbling both commoner and foreign ruler.

To the right of the Tower lay the Five Houses, a large hexagonal building that housed the priesthood. Danjin had never entered it and probably never would. While he respected the gods and their followers, he had no desire to become a priest. At fifty-one years of age he was too old to be giving up some of his bad habits. And his wife would never have approved.

Then again, she might like the idea. He smiled to himself. She’s always complaining I mess up her house and plans when I’m home.

A generous spread of open land surrounded the Temple buildings. Paved paths and garden beds had been laid out in patterns of circles within circles. The circle was the sacred symbol of the Circle of Gods, and some of the ways it had been incorporated into the Temple made Danjin wonder if the original designers and architects had been demented fanatics. Did they need to decorate the communal toilets with circular designs, for instance?

The platten rolled ever closer to the Tower. Danjin’s heart was beating a little too fast now. White-clad priests and priestesses strode back and forth, a few noting his arrival and nodding politely, as they probably did to anyone as richly dressed as he. The platten came to a halt beside the Tower and Danjin climbed out. He thanked the driver, who nodded once before urging the arem into motion again.

Taking a deep breath, Danjin turned to face the Tower entrance. Heavy columns supported a wide arch. He moved inside. Magical lights within revealed the entire ground floor of the Tower to be a densely columned hall. Here, gatherings were held and important visitors entertained. Since the White were the rulers of Hania, as well as heads of the Circlian religion, the Temple was as much palace as religious center. Rulers of other lands, their ambassadors and other significant personages congregated here on important occasions, or visited to negotiate political matters. This was a unique situation; in all other lands the priesthood was secondary to the ruling power.

The hall was filled with people and buzzed with voices. Priests and priestesses hurried about or mingled with men and women dressed in tunics made of luxurious fabrics, covered in generous tawls despite the heat, and glittering with jewelry. Danjin gazed around at the faces, feeling something akin to awe. Nearly every ruler, every famous, wealthy and influential man and woman of Northern Ithania was here.

I can’t believe I’m seeing this.

What had brought them to the Temple of Hania was a desire to witness the gods choose the fifth and final White. Now that the ceremony had taken place, they all wanted to meet the new member of the Gods’ Chosen.

Danjin forced himself to continue on his way, walking between two rows of columns. They radiated toward the center of the building, drawing him ever inward to a thick circular wall. It encompassed a spiralling staircase that curved upward to the highest level. The climb to the top of the Tower was a strenuous one, and the creators of this place had come up with a startling solution. A heavy chain hung in the stairwell, descending into the hole in the floor. A priest stood at the base of the stairs. Danjin approached the man and made the formal sign of the circle: holding forefingers and thumbs of both hands together.

“Danjin Spear,” he said. “I am here to see Dyara of the White.”

The priest nodded. “Welcome, Danjin Spear,” he replied in a deep voice.

Danjin watched for some indication of the mental signal the priest was communicating to others, but the man did not even blink. The chain in the stairwell began to move. Danjin held his breath. He was still a little frightened of this contraption in the center of the White Tower. Looking up, he saw a large metal disc descending toward them.

The disc was the base of a metal enclosure as wide as the stairwell. Everyone referred to this contraption as “the cage,” and the reason was obvious. It looked just like the bent-reed cages used to hold animals in the market - and probably inspired a similar feeling of vulnerability in its occupants. Danjin was grateful that this was not his first ride in the contraption. While he did not think he would ever feel comfortable using it, he wasn’t as terrified as he had once been. He did not need terror added to the anxiety of beginning an important job.

When the metal enclosure had settled at the bottom of the stairwell, the priest opened the door and ushered Danjin inside. As the cage rose Danjin soon lost sight of the man. The stairwell appeared to spiral around him as the cage gained height. Men and women dressed in circs, servant uniforms or the sumptuous clothes of the rich and important populated the treads. The lower levels contained accommodation and meeting rooms for visiting dignitaries. The higher the cage rose, however, the fewer people Danjin saw. Finally he reached the highest levels, where the White lived. The cage slowed, then came to a halt.

Opening the door, Danjin stepped out. Two steps away, in the wall opposite, was a door. He hesitated before moving to it. Though he had spoken to Dyara, the second most powerful White, several times now, he was still a little overwhelmed in her presence. He wiped his sweaty hands against his sides, took a deep breath and lifted a hand to knock.

His knuckles met with nothing as the door swung open. A tall, middle-aged woman smiled at him.

“Right on time, as usual, Danjin Spear. Come in.”

“Dyara of the White,” he said respectfully, making the sign of the circle. “How could I be late when you so kindly sent me a platten?”

Her eyebrows rose. “If all it took to guarantee punctuality was sending a platten then there are more than a few people I’ve summoned in the past who have a lot to explain. Come in and sit down.”

She turned and strode back into the room. Her height, coupled with the garb of a Circlian priestess, would have made her an imposing figure even if she hadn’t been one of the immortal White. As he followed her into the room he saw that another of the White was present. He made the sign of the circle again. “Mairae of the White.”

The woman smiled and Danjin felt his heart lighten. Mairae’s beauty was renowned throughout Northern Ithania. In songs of tribute her hair was described as sunlight on gold and her eyes were compared to sapphires. It was said she could charm a king out of his kingdom with a smile. He doubted any of the current kings could be made cooperative with a mere smile, but there was an appealing sparkle in Mairae’s eyes and warmth in her manner that always put him at ease.

She was not as tall as Dyara and she did not exude stern confidence in the way the older woman did. Of the five White, Dyara had been chosen second. Her Choosing had occurred seventy-five years ago, when she was forty-two years of age, so she had more than a century’s knowledge of the world. Mairae, chosen at twenty-three a quarter of a century ago, had less than half Dyara’s experience.

“Don’t let King Berro take up all your time today,” Dyara said to Mairae.

“I’ll find something to distract him,” Mairae replied. “Do you need help with the preparations for tonight’s celebrations?”

“Not yet. There’s a whole day in which disasters could develop, however.” She paused as if something had just occurred to her, then glanced at Danjin. “Mairae, would you keep Danjin Spear company while I check something?”

Mairae smiled. “Of course.”

As the door to the room closed behind Dyara, Mairae smiled. “Our newest recruit is finding it all a bit overwhelming,” she said in a conspiratorial tone. “I still remember what it was like. Dyara kept me so busy I didn’t have time to think.”

Danjin felt a twinge of apprehension. What would he do if the newest White was incapable of performing her duties?

“Don’t be alarmed, Danjin Spear.” Mairae smiled and he remembered that all of the White could read minds. “She’s fine. She’s just a bit surprised to find herself where she is.”

Danjin nodded, relieved. He considered Mairae. This might be an opportunity to gain a little insight into the newest White.

“What is she like?” he asked.

Mairae pursed her lips as she considered her answer. “Smart. Powerful. Loyal to the gods. Compassionate.”

“I mean, how is she different to the rest of the White?” he amended.

She laughed. “Ah! Dyara didn’t tell me you were a flatterer. I like that in a man. Hmm.” Her eyes narrowed. “She tries to see all sides of an argument, and naturally looks for what people want or need. I think she will be a good peacemaker.”

“Or negotiator? I heard she had something to do with that incident with the Dunwayans ten years ago.”

“Yes. It was her village they took hostage.”

“Ah.” Interesting.

Mairae abruptly straightened and looked at the wall behind him. No, he corrected, she’s not looking at the wall. Her attention is elsewhere. He was beginning to recognize mannerisms that hinted at mental communication passing between the White. Her gaze shifted to him again.

“You’re right, Danjin Spear. I have just received notice that King Berro has asked to see me. I’m afraid I must leave you. Will you be fine here on your own?”

“Yes, of course,” he said.

Mairae rose. “I’m sure we will meet many times again, Danjin Spear. And I am sure you will make a fine adviser.”

“Thank you, Mairae of the White.”

When she had gone, the silence was unusually intense. That’s because there is no noise from the outside, he thought. He looked toward the window. It was large and circular, and gave a view of the sky. A shiver of cold ran down his spine.

Standing up, he forced himself to move closer. Though he had seen it before, the view from the White Tower still unnerved him. The sea appeared. A few steps more and he could see the city below - a toy city of tiny houses and tinier people. Taking another step, he felt his heart begin to race as the Dome came into view, like a massive egg half-buried in the ground.

The ground. Which was a long, long way below.

The world tilted and began to revolve. He backed away until all he could see was the sea and sky. At once his head stopped spinning. A few deep breaths later his pulse started to slow.

Then he heard the sound of the door opening behind him and his heart lurched. He turned to see Dyara entering the room. A priestess accompanied her. As he realized who this must be his apprehension was replaced by curiosity.

The new White was as tall as her companion but her arms were thinner and her face was all angles. Her hair was a shade lighter than Dyara’s earthy brown. Large eyes were tilted upward at the outer edges, giving her a birdlike appearance. Those eyes regarded him with intelligence and her mouth quirked with amusement. She was probably watching him assessing her, reading his every thought.

Habits were hard to break. He had learned over the years to gauge a person’s character at first glance, and could not stop himself now. As she and Dyara walked toward him he noted that the way the new White held her shoulders betrayed her nervousness. Her unwavering gaze and strong mouth suggested a natural confidence would replace it soon, however. He had been told she was twenty-six, and his eyes confirmed it, but there was a maturity in her expression that hinted at a greater knowledge and experience of the world than the average noblewoman would have at that age.

She must have studied hard and learned quickly to become a high priestess by this age, he thought. Her Gifts must be strong, too. If she is the one who came from that little village the Dunwayans took hostage, she has come a long way.

Dyara smiled. “Auraya, this is Danjin Spear,” she said. “He is to be your adviser.”

Danjin made the formal sign of the circle. Auraya began to raise her hands in reply, then stopped and let them fall to her side again.

“Greetings, Danjin Spear,” she said.

“Greetings, Auraya of the White,” he replied. She sounds confident, he noted. At least she keeps her nervousness from her voice. She just needs to work on her bearing. She straightened and lifted her chin. That’s better, he thought. Then he realized that she would have read his thoughts and adjusted herself in response. It is going to take some time to get used to this mind-reading, he mused.

“I can see you two will work well together,” Dyara said. She ushered them toward the chairs. “Danjin has been useful to us in the past. His assessment of the Toren situation was particularly insightful and helped us achieve an alliance with the king.”

Auraya looked at him with genuine interest. “Is that so?”

He shrugged. “I only related what I learned from living in Toren.”

Dyara chuckled. “He is refreshingly humble, too. You’ll find his knowledge of other peoples as useful. He can speak all the languages of Ithania.”

“Except those of the peoples of Siyee and Elai,” he added.

“He is a good judge of character. He knows how to deliver advice to powerful men and women discreetly and without causing offense.”

Auraya’s attention moved from Dyara to him as they spoke. Her lips twitched at Dyara’s last comment.

“A useful skill indeed,” she said.

“He will accompany you whenever you hold an audience. Pay attention to his thoughts. They will guide you in your responses.”

Auraya nodded and looked at Danjin, her expression apologetic.

“Danjin is well aware that having his mind read constantly is part of his role,” Dyara assured her. She turned and smiled at Danjin while continuing to speak to Auraya. “Though that doesn’t mean you should ignore the rules of good manners about which I told you.”

“Of course not.”

“Now that introductions are over, we must get you to the lower levels. The Toren king is waiting to meet you.”

“I’m meeting kings already?” Auraya asked.

“Yes,” Dyara said firmly. “They came to Jarime to witness the Choosing. Now they want to meet the Chosen. I wish I could give you more time, but I can’t.”

“That’s fine,” Auraya said, shrugging. “I just hoped to have time to familiarize myself with my new adviser before demanding work of him.”

“You will familiarize yourselves as you work.”

Auraya nodded. “Very well.” She smiled at Danjin. “But I do hope to get to know you better when I have the chance.”

He bowed his head. “And I look forward to making your acquaintance too, Auraya of the White.”

As the two White rose and moved toward the door, Danjin followed. He had met the woman he would be working for, and nothing about her suggested his role would be difficult or unpleasant. His first task, however, was another matter.

Helping her deal with the Toren king, he thought. Now this will be a challenge.

Tryss changed his position slightly, his toes curling and uncurling around the rough bark of the branch. Staring down through the tree’s foliage he saw another movement in the undergrowth below and felt a rush of anticipation. But though he longed to lean forward, stretch his wings out and dive, he held himself still.

His skin itched as sweat ran over him, wetting the woven string-reed cloth of his vest and trousers and making the membrane of his wings itch. Straps about his hips and neck felt restrictive and uncomfortable and the spikes hanging against his belly felt heavy. Too heavy. They would drag him to the ground the moment he tried to fly.

No, he told himself. Fight your instincts. The harness won’t restrict you. It won’t weigh you down. There’s more danger on the tips of these spikes. If he scratched himself with them... He did not like his chances of surviving if he succumbed to a sleep drug while perched on a thin bough many man-heights above the ground.

He stiffened at another movement below. As three yern stepped out into the clearing beneath him, he held his breath. From above they were narrow barrels of brown hide, their sharp horns foreshortened to mere stubs. Slowly the creatures approached the glistening creek, snatching mouthfuls of grass as they moved. Tryss ran his hands over the straps and wooden levers of the harness, checking that all was set correctly. Then he took a few deep breaths and let himself fall.

Yern were herbivorous herd animals with fine senses that allowed them to detect the position and mood of every member of their herd. Those senses could also detect the minds of other animals nearby and know if any were intending to attack. Yern were swift runners. The only predators who succeeded in catching one were those that used the advantage of surprise or had canny mind-deception Gifts of their own - like the dreaded leramer - and even then they could only hope to catch the old and sick animals of the herd.

As Tryss fell, he saw the yern - sensing the approach of a mind set on attack - tense and cast about, confused and unsure which direction to flee in. They could not comprehend that a predator might attack from above. Halfway to the ground, Tryss spread his arms wide and felt the membranes of his wings collect and resist air. He shot out of the tree and swooped toward his prey.

Sensing him almost upon them, terror overcame the beasts. They scattered in every direction, hooting loudly. Tryss followed one, ducking under the branches of other trees. He chased it into the open, then, when he judged himself in the right position over the beast, he tugged at the strap wound around his right thumb. One of the spikes at his waist fell.

At the same time the yern abruptly changed direction. The spike missed and disappeared in the grass. Biting back a curse, Tryss banked and followed the creature. This time he tried not to think about being ready to strike. He cleared his mind of all thought but matching his flight with the yern’s, then jerked his left thumb and felt the small weight of the spike fall.

It struck the beast’s back just behind the withers. Tryss felt a surge of triumph. As the animal continued running, the spike flicked back and forth against its hide. He watched anxiously, afraid that it hadn’t sunk deep enough for the drug to enter the bloodstream, or that it might fall out again.

The spike remained lodged in the yern’s back. The beast’s run slowed to a stagger, then it stopped and Tryss found himself circling like a carrion bird. He searched the surrounding area carefully for leramer or other big predators. They would steal his prize if he was not careful.

The yern below him swayed, then toppled onto its side. Judging it safe to land, Tryss dropped lightly to the ground a few strides from the animal. He waited until he saw the yern’s eyes glaze over before approaching. The animal’s horns were sharp and could easily ruin a Siyee’s wings.

The animal looked huge up close. Tryss doubted his head would have reached the height of its shoulders, had it been standing up. He ran his hand over the yern’s hide. It was warm and had a strong animal smell. He realized he was grinning with excitement.

I’ve done it! I’ve single-handedly brought down one of the big animals of the forest!

Siyee did not hunt the large animals. They were a small race, light and fragile with few magical Gifts. Their bones were delicate and easily broken. Their legs were not suited to running long distances, and the movement of their arms - their wings - was limited. Even if they could have hefted a spear or sword, their grip on it would have been too precarious. With all but thumb and forefinger included in the structure of their wings, their hands were useless for tasks that required strength. Whenever Tryss regarded his body, he wondered if the goddess Huan who had created his people out of landwalkers - the humans that occupied the rest of the world - so many hundreds of years ago had forgotten to consider how they would defend or feed themselves.

It was accepted that, since there was no weapon the Siyee could use while flying, the goddess had never intended them to be a people that hunted or fought. Instead they must gather and grow grain, vegetables, fruit and nuts. They must trap and breed small animals and live where no landwalkers could reach them: in the harsh, impassable mountains of Si.

There were only a few small pockets of workable land in the mountains, and many of the animals they ate were increasingly hard to trap. Tryss was sure Huan had not intended for the people she had created to starve. That was why, he reasoned, some had been given inventive minds. He looked down at the contraption he had strapped to his body. It was a simple design. The challenge had been to create something that allowed all the movement needed in flight while providing a simple means of releasing the spikes.

With this we can hunt! We might even be able to defend ourselves - perhaps take back some of the places the landwalkers have stolen from us. He knew they would not be able to fight large groups of invaders this way, but the odd group of landwalker outlaws venturing into Si could easily be dealt with.

But two spikes aren’t nearly enough, he decided. I’m sure I can carry four. They don’t weigh that much. But how to release them? I’ve only got two thumbs.

That was something to consider later. Looking at the sleeping yern, he realized he had a problem. He had brought a length of rope, intending to hoist it up a tree to keep it out of the reach of most predators while he flew home to bring others back to admire his achievement and help butcher it. Now he doubted he had the strength even to drag it to the nearest trunk. He had no choice but to leave it there and hope predators didn’t find it. That meant he must fetch helpers quickly. He’d fly faster without the harness. Unbuckling it, he shrugged out of the contraption and hung it up in a nearby tree. He drew his knife and cut a handful of hair from the yern’s mane and tucked it into a pocket. Judging the direction of the wind, he began to run.

Becoming airborne from the ground took a great deal of energy. Tryss leapt into the air and beat his wings, and was gasping with exertion by the time he had reached a height where the winds were stronger and allowed him to glide and soar. Once he had caught his breath, he sped himself along with strong wing-beats, following favorable currents of air.

It was at these moments that he could forgive the goddess Huan for the hardship and difficulties his people faced. He loved to fly. Apparently landwalkers loved using their legs, too. They enjoyed an entertainment called “dancing” in which they walked or ran in set patterns‘, alone or in groups of two or more. The closest Siyee equivalent was trei-trei, which could be a part of Siyee courtship or a sport for testing skill and agility.

Tryss’s musing ended as he sighted a stretch of bare rock ahead, like a long, narrow scar dividing the mountain’s pelt of trees. It was broken into three steps that descended the mountain slope. This was the Open, the largest Siyee settlement. Countless Siyee came and went from this steep clearing every day. Tryss descended slowly, searching for familiar faces. He had almost reached his parents’ bower when he spotted his cousins. The twins were sitting on the warm rocks of the lower slope on either side of a girl.

Tryss felt his chest tighten as he recognized the fine-boned, glossy-haired girl: Drilli, whose family recently became his neighbors. He circled and considered flying on. In the past he had got along well with his cousins - if he was prepared to weather a lot of teasing for his strange ways. Then Drilli’s family had moved to the Open. Now his cousins competed for her attention, often at Tryss’s expense. He had learned to avoid their company when she was around.

They had once respected his inventiveness, and he still wanted to share his victories with them, but he couldn’t tell them about his successful hunt while Drilli was there. They would turn it into something to taunt him about. Besides, his tongue always tied itself in knots when she was near. No, he should find someone else.

Then he noticed that, from above, the cut of her vest revealed that fascinating small hollow between her breasts and he found himself circling one more time. His shadow passed over her and she looked up. He felt a dizzying thrill of pleasure as she smiled at him.

“Tryss! Come down and join us. Ziss and Trinn just told me the funniest joke.”

The two boys looked up and scowled, clearly wanting her attention all for themselves. Well, too bad, Tryss thought. I just brought down a yern. I want Drilli to see it. Swooping down, he folded his wings and landed lightly before them. Drilli’s eyebrows rose. At once his throat sealed up and he couldn’t speak. He stared at her, feeling his face begin to tingle the way it did whenever it turned red.

“Where have you been?” Ziss demanded. “Aunt Trill’s been looking for you.”

“You’d better go see what she wants,” Trinn warned. “You know what she’s like.”

Drilli laughed. “Oh, she didn’t seem all that worried. I don’t think you need to go right away, Tryss.” She smiled again. “So, where have you been all morning?”

Tryss swallowed hard and took a deep breath. He could manage one word, surely.

“Hunting,” he choked out.

“Hunting what?” Ziss scoffed.

“Yern.”

The two boys snorted with disbelief and amusement. Trinn turned to Drilli and leaned close as if to share a secret, but his voice was pitched loud enough for Tryss to hear.

“Tryss has got these strange ideas, you see. He thinks he can catch big animals by tying rocks to himself and dropping them on them.”

“Rocks?” she said, frowning. “But how—?”

“Spikes,” Tryss blurted out. “Spikes with florrim juice on the tips.” He felt his face heat up, but when he thought of the unconscious yern a cool rush of pride came over him. “And I have caught one.” He dug into his pocket and drew out the lock of yern hair.

The three Siyee regarded the hair with interest. Ziss looked up at Tryss with narrowed eyes. “You’re having us for a joke,” he accused. “You got this from a dead one.”

“No. It’s asleep from the florrim. I’ll show you.” Tryss glanced at Drilli, amazed and relieved that he was finally managing to form whole sentences around her. “Bring your knives and we’ll have a feast tonight. But if you wait too long a leramer will find it and we’ll get nothing.”

The boys exchanged glances. Tryss guessed they were weighing the chances of this being a joke against the possibility of meat for dinner.

“Fine,” Ziss said, rising and stretching. “We’ll see this yern for ourselves.”

Trinn stood up and flexed his wings. As Drilli got to her feet, clearly intending to follow, Tryss felt his heart skip. She was going to be impressed when she saw the yern. He grinned, broke into a run and leapt into the sky.

Leading them away, he scowled with annoyance when the twins flew over to a group of older boys near the end of the Open. Tryss recognized Sreil, the athletic son of Speaker Sirri, the leader of his tribe. His mouth went dry as the group swooped toward him, whistling shrilly.

“Got yourself a yern, have you?” Sreil called as he passed.

“Might have,” Tryss replied.

More questions came, but he refused to explain how he had brought the animal down. He’d been unable to persuade many Siyee to look at his harness before this. If he started describing it now, they would get bored and lose interest. Once they saw the yern, however, they would want to know how he’d caught it. He would demonstrate the harness. They’d start to take his ideas seriously. After several minutes he glanced behind. To his consternation, the group following him had doubled in size. Doubts began to eat at his confidence, but he pushed them away. Instead, he let his imagination take him into the future. Sreil would take meat back to Speaker Sirri. The Siyee leader would ask to see Tryss’s invention. She would have Tryss make more and teach others to use them.

I’ll be a hero. The twins will never mock me again.

He roused himself from his daydream as he neared the place he had left the yern. Circling around, he searched the area but found nothing. Feeling eyes on him, he dropped to the ground and paced about. There was a hollow in the grass the size of a large beast, but no yern.

He stared at the hollow in disappointment, then felt his stomach sink as Siyee dropped to the ground all about him.

“So, where’s this yern, then?” Ziss asked.

Tryss shrugged. “Gone. I told you if we took too long a leramer would find it.”

“There’s no blood.” This came from one of the older boys. “If a leramer took it, there’d be blood.”

“And there’s no sign anything was dragged away,” another added. “If it stayed to eat, there’d be a carcass.”

He was right, Tryss realized. So where had the yern gone?

Sreil stepped forward and examined the ground thoughtfully. “But something big did lie here not long ago.”

“Having a nap, probably,” someone said. There was a snigger from a few of the watchers.

“So, Tryss,” Ziss said, “did you find a sleeping yern and think you could convince us you’d killed it?”

Tryss glanced at his cousin, then at the amused faces of the Siyee around him. His face burned.

“No.”

“I’ve got things to do,” someone said. The Siyee began to move away. The air hummed with the sound of their wings. Tryss kept his eyes on the ground. He heard footsteps approach, then felt a pat on his shoulder. Looking up, he found Sreil standing beside him, holding out the spike that had struck the yern.

“Good try,” he said. Tryss winced. He took the spike from Sreil, then watched as the older boy sprinted into the open and leapt into the air.

“You used florrim, didn’t you?”

Tryss started. He hadn’t realized Drilli was still there.

“Yes.”

She looked at the spike. “It’s got to take a lot more florrim to put a big animal to sleep than a person, and that wouldn’t have got far through a yern hide. Maybe you should try something stronger, or deadlier. Or make sure it can’t wake up again after it falls asleep.” She patted the sheathed knife buckled to her thigh meaningfully.

She has a point, he thought.

Drilli grinned, then turned away. As she leapt into the sky, Tryss watched her in admiration.

Sometimes he wondered how he could be so stupid.

2

Auraya sat before the polished silver mirror, but she did not see her reflection. Instead she was captivated by a recent memory.

In her mind she could see thousands of white-garbed men and women congregated before the Dome. She remembered how she had never seen so many priests and priestesses gathered in one place. They had travelled to the Temple from all the lands of Northern Ithania in order to attend the Choosing Ceremony. Every priest and priestess living in the Five Houses had been sharing their rooms with those from outside the city and country.

She had glimpsed the size of the crowd as she had left the Tower, walking with her fellow high priests and priestesses to the Dome. Beyond the sea of white figures there had been an even larger crowd of ordinary men, women and children come to witness the event.

Only high priests and priestesses had been candidates for the last position among the Gods’ Chosen. Auraya had been one of the youngest of these. Some had said she had ascended the ranks only because of her strong Gifts. Her stomach still tensed with anger at the memory.

It is unfair of them. They know it took me ten years of hard work and dedication to reach the position so quickly.

What did they think now that she was one of the White? Did they regret their judgment of her? She felt a mingled sympathy and triumph. They were victims of their own ambition. If they thought the gods would pay attention to their lies they were fools. Instead it probably proved they were unworthy. A White shouldn’t have a habit of spreading untrue gossip.

Returning to her memory, she replayed the walk from the Tower to the Dome in her mind. The high priests and priestesses had formed a ring around the dais inside. The Altar, the most sacred place in the Temple, stood at the center. It was a large five-sided structure three times as high as a man, each wall a tall triangle that sloped inward to meet its fellows. On occasions when the White entered it, the five walls hinged outward until they rested on the floor, revealing a table and five chairs within. When the White wished to converse in private the walls folded upward to enclose them in a room from which no sound could escape.

The Altar had folded open like a flower as the four White climbed the steps of the dais and turned to face the crowd. Auraya closed her eyes and tried to recall Juran’s exact words.

“Chaia, Huan, Lore, Yranna, Saru. We invite you, our divine guardians and guides, to meet with us today, for the time has come for you to choose your fifth and last representative. Here stand those who have proven themselves your worthy, capable and devoted followers: our high priests and priestesses. Each is ready and willing to dedicate their life to you.”

The air had seemed to shimmer briefly. Auraya shivered as she remembered. Five figures had appeared on the dais, each a being of light, each a translucent illusion of humanity. A low sound had risen from the watching priests and priestesses. She had heard faint shouts of “The gods have appeared!” in the distance.

And what a sight they were, she thought, smiling.

The gods existed in the magic that imbued all the world, in every rock, every drop of water, every plant, every animal, every man, woman and child, in all matter, unseen and unfelt unless they wished to influence the world. When they chose to reveal themselves they did so by changing magic into light and shaping it into exquisitely beautiful human forms.

Chaia had been tall and dressed like a statesman. His face was noble and handsome, like a kingly figure chiselled from polished marble. His hair had moved as if stirred by an affectionate wind. And his eyes... Auraya sighed. His eyes were so clear and unbearably direct, but also somehow warm and... affectionate. He really does love us all.

Huan, in contrast, had been intimidating and stern in appearance - beautiful but fierce. With her arms crossed over her chest she had radiated power. She had swept her eyes over the crowd as if looking for something to punish.

Lore’s stance had been casual, though his build was heavier than the rest of the gods. He wore glittering armor. Before the War of the Gods he had been worshipped by soldiers.

Yranna had been all smiles, Auraya recalled. Her beauty was more feminine and youthful than Huan’s. She was a favorite among the younger priestesses, still a champion of women, though she had put aside the role of goddess of love when joining the other gods.

The last god Auraya had noticed was Sam, a favorite of merchants. It was said he had once been the god of thieves and gamblers, but Auraya was not sure it was true. He had taken on the slimmer physique fashionable among courtiers and intellectuals.

At the gods’ appearance all had prostrated themselves. Auraya could still remember the smoothness of the stone floor against her forehead and palms. Silence had followed, then a deep, melodious voice filled the Dome.

“Rise, people of Ithania,” a beautiful voice said.

As she had climbed to her feet with the rest of the crowd, Auraya had been trembling with awe and excitement. She hadn’t felt so overwhelmed since she had first arrived at the Temple ten years before. It had been strangely delightful to feel so inspired again. After so many years living in the Temple, little about it stirred such exhilaration anymore.

The voice spoke again and she realized it belonged to Chaia.

“A few short centuries ago gods fought gods and men fought men, and much grief and ruin was caused. We five were saddened by this and undertook a great task. We would make order from the chaos. We would bring peace and prosperity to the world. We would release humankind from cruelty, slavery and deceit.

“So we fought a great battle and reshaped the world. But we cannot shape the hearts of men and women. We can only advise you and give you strength. In order to help you, we have selected representatives from among you. Their duty it is to protect you and be your link to us, your gods. Today we will choose our fifth representative from those you have deemed most worthy for this responsibility. To the one we choose we bestow immortality and great strength. When our gift is accepted, another stage of our great task will be completed.”

He had paused then. Auraya had expected a longer speech. A silence had filled the hall so complete that she had been sure every man and woman was holding their breath. I was holding mine, she remembered.

Then came the moment she would never forget.

“We offer this gift to High Priestess Auraya, of the family Dyer,” Chaia had said, turning to face her. “Come forward, Auraya of the White.”

Auraya took a deep, shuddering breath as joy swept over her again. At the time it had been tempered by sheer terror. She’d had to approach a god. She’d been the focus of attention - and probably jealousy - of several thousand people.

Now it was tempered by the reality of her future. From the moment she had been chosen she’d barely had a moment to herself. Her days were filled with meetings with rulers and other important people - and the difficulties had ranged from language barriers to avoiding making promises the other White were not yet ready to make. The only time she was left alone was late at night, when she was supposed to sleep. Every night so far she had lain awake, trying to sort through all that had happened to her. Tonight she had paced her room, finally sitting down in front of the mirror.

It’s a wonder I don’t look like a wreck, she thought, making herself regard her reflection again. I shouldn’t look this good. Is this another of the gods’ Gifts?

She looked down at her hand. The white ring on her middle finger almost seemed to glow. Through it the gods gave her the Gift of immortality and somehow enhanced her own Gifts. They had made her one of the most powerful sorcerers in the world.

In return she gave her will and her now never-ending life to their service. They were magical beings. To affect the physical world they must work through humans. Most of the time this was through instruction, but if a human gave up their will the gods could take over their body. The latter was rare, as it could, if maintained too long, affect the owner’s mind. Sometimes their sense of identity was confused, and they continued believing they were the god. Sometimes they simply forgot who they were.

Best not think about that, she thought. The gods wouldn’t wreck the mind of one of their Chosen anyway. Unless they wanted to punish them...

She found herself looking at an old trunk that stood against one wall. The servants had obeyed her instruction to leave it unopened, and so far she hadn’t had the time or courage to open it herself. Inside were the few belongings she owned. She couldn’t imagine the quaint, cheap trinkets she had bought over the years looking anything more than tacky in the austere rooms of a White, but she didn’t want to throw them away. They reminded her of times in her life and people she loved or wanted to remember: her parents, friends in the priesthood, and her first lover - how long ago that seemed now!

At the base of the trunk was something more dangerous. There, in a secret compartment, were several letters she ought to destroy.

Like the trinkets, she didn’t want to. However, unlike the trinkets, the letters might now cause a scandal if they were discovered. Now that I have some time to myself I may as well deal with them. Rising, she moved to the trunk and kneeled in front of it. The latch clicked open and the lid creaked as she lifted it. Just as she had suspected, everything within it looked too rustic and humble. The little pottery vase her first lover - a young priest - had given her looked artless. The blanket, a gift from her mother, was warm but looked dull and old. She took these out, uncovering a large white circle of cloth - her old priestess’s circ.

She had worn a circ every day since she had been ordained. All priests and priestesses wore them, including the White. Ordinary priests and priestesses wore a circ trimmed in blue. The circ of a high priest or priestess was trimmed in gold. The White’s bore no decoration to show that they had put aside self-interest and wealth in order to serve the gods. It was also why people called the Gods’ Chosen the “White.”

Looking over her shoulder, Auraya regarded her new circ, hanging on a stand made for that purpose. The two gold clasps pinned to the edge marked where the top third of the circle folded back against the rest. It was draped around the shoulders, the clasps attaching to opposite sides.

The circ in her hands was lighter and coarser than the one on the stand. The White might not embellish their circs, she mused, but they do have them made from the best cloth. The softer white garments she had been given to wear beneath her new circ were also better quality. As with lesser priests and priestesses, the White could change their garments to suit the weather and their gender but everything was well crafted. She now wore sandals made of bleached leather with small gold clasps.

She put the circ aside. She hadn’t worn it for over two years - not since she had become a high priestess and received a circ with a gold edge. That had disappeared, whisked away by servants the day she had been chosen. Would this, too, be removed if the servants found it? Did she care? She had only kept it out of a sense of sentimentality.

Auraya turned back to the trunk. Taking out the rest of the objects within, she laid them on a seat nearby. When the trunk was empty she reached inside and levered open the secret compartment. Small rolls of parchment lay within.

Why did I even keep these? she asked herself. I didn’t need to. I guess I couldn’t make myself throw away anything that my parents sent.

Taking out a scroll, she unrolled it and began to read.

The next letter read:

Her father’s letters were, by necessity, short. Parchment was expensive. She felt a wary relief as she read more of them. We were careful, she thought. We didn’t say exactly what we were doing. Except for that first letter I sent, in which I had to make it plain what I wanted Father to do. Hopefully he burned that one.

She sighed and shook her head. No matter how careful she and her father had been, the gods must know what they had done. They could see into the minds of all.

Yet they still chose me, she thought. Of all the high priests and priestesses, they chose someone who broke the law and used a Dreamweaver’s services.

Mairae had been true to her promise ten years ago. A healer priest had travelled to Oralyn to care for Auraya’s mother. Leiard could hardly continue treating Ma-Dyer, so Auraya had sent him a note thanking him for his help and explaining it was no longer needed.

Despite the healer priest’s attention, Auraya’s mother had grown sicker. At the same time Auraya had learned through her studies that healer priests did not have half the skill or knowledge that Dreamweavers possessed. She realized that by causing Leiard’s treatments to be replaced by those of a healer priest she had effectively doomed her mother to an earlier, more painful death.

Her time in Jarime had also shown her how deeply Circlians despised and distrusted Dreamweavers. She asked careful questions of her teachers and fellow priests and soon came to the conclusion that she could not openly arrange for Leiard or any other Dreamweaver to treat her mother again. She would meet resistance from her superiors if she did and she did not have the authority to order the healer priest home. So she had to arrange it surreptitiously.

She had suggested in a letter to her father that her mother exaggerate her symptoms in order to convince everyone she was close to death. In the meantime, her father ventured into the forest to ask Leiard if he would resume his former treatment. The Dreamweaver had agreed. When Auraya received the news that her mother was dying, she suggested to the healer priest that he return to Jarime. He had done all he could.

Leiard’s treatment had revived her mother, as she’d hoped. Her mother had played down her miraculous recovery, staying in the house and seeing few visitors - which was her inclination anyway.

I was so sure this would stand against me being Chosen. I wanted so much to be a White, but I couldn’t make myself believe that the Dreamweavers are bad or that I had done anything wrong. The law against using a Dreamweaver’s services is ridiculous. The plants and other remedies Leiard uses are not good or evil depending on whether a heathen or believer uses them. I haven’t seen anything to convince me that Dreamweavers, in general, deserve to be hated or distrusted.

Yet the gods still chose me. What am I to make of that? Does this mean they are willing to tolerate Dreamweavers now? She felt a thrill of hope. Do they want Circlians to accept Dreamweavers too? Am I meant to bring this about?

The feeling faded and she shook her head. Why would they do that? Why would they show any tolerance for people who do not follow them and discourage others from doing so? More likely I will be told to keep my sympathies to myself and do my job.

Why did that bother her? Why should she feel any sympathy for the members of a cult that she did not belong to? Was it simply because she still felt a debt of gratitude to Leiard for all that he had taught her, and for helping her mother? If that were so, it made sense that she would be concerned for his well-being, but not that she was concerned for Dreamweavers she had never met.

It’s the thought of all the healing knowledge that would be lost if the Dreamweavers no longer existed, she told herself. I haven’t seen Leiard in ten years. If I’m concerned about him, it is probably only because my mother’s life depends on him.

Taking all the letters out of the compartment, she placed them in a silver bowl. She held one up, drew magic to herself and sent it out as a little spark. A flame snapped into life, then ate its way down the parchment. When it had nearly reached her fingers she dropped the letter back into the bowl and picked up another.

One by one the letters burned. As she worked she wondered if the gods were watching. I arranged for a Dreamweaver to treat my mother. I won’t willingly end that arrangement. Nor will I make it publicly known. If the gods disapprove, they will let me know.

Dropping the last burning corner of parchment into the bowl, she stepped back and watched it turn to ash. She felt better. Holding onto that feeling, she returned to her bedroom and lay down.

Now, maybe, I can get some sleep.

The cliffs of Toren were high, black and dangerous. During storms the sea flung itself against the rock wall as if determined to batter it down. Even on quiet nights the water appeared to resent the presence of the natural barrier, foaming where it touched rock. But if this war between land and water was leading to a victory, it was coming too slowly for mortal eyes to guess the winner.

In the distant past, many watercraft had become casualties of this battle. The black cliffs were difficult to see most nights and were a hidden peril if the moon was obscured by cloud. More than a thousand years ago, when the lighthouse had been built, the shipwrecks had stopped.

Made from the same rock as the cliff wall it topped, the round stone walls of the tower were resisting time and weather. The wooden interior, however, had succumbed to rot and neglect long ago, leaving only a narrow stone stair curving up the inside of the wall. At the top was a room floored with a huge circular slab of rock through which a hole had been carved. The walls built upon this slab had suffered worse; only the arches still remained. The roof had fallen away years ago.

Once the center of the room had been occupied by a floating ball of light so bright that it would blind anyone foolish enough to stare at it for more than a few moments. Sorcerers had maintained it, keeping the sea safe for centuries.

Emerahl, wise woman and sorceress, was the only human visitor to that room these days. Years ago, when clearing some of the rubble that filled the hollow structure, she had found one of the masks those long-dead sorcerers had worn. The eyeholes were filled with dark gems to filter the dazzling light they had fed with magic.

Now the lighthouse stood crumbling and unused and ships must judge the passage past the black cliffs without its help. As Emerahl reached the topmost room she paused to catch her breath. Placing a wrinkled hand on the column of an arch, she looked out at the sea. Tiny specks of light drew her eye. Ships always waited until daylight before navigating the passage between the cliffs and the islands.

Do they know this place exists? she wondered. Do people still tell stories of the light that burned here? She snorted softly. If they do, I doubt they know it was built by a sorcerer at the bidding of Tempre, the fire god. They probably don’t even remember Tempre’s name. It’s only a few centuries since he died, but that’s plenty of time for mortals to forget what life was like before the War of the Gods.

Did anyone know the names of the dead gods these days? Were there scholars who studied the subject? Perhaps in the cities. Ordinary men and women, struggling to make the best of their short lives, did not care about such things.

Emerahl looked down at the cluster of houses further along the shore. As she did a movement closer to the lighthouse caught her eye. She groaned quietly in dismay. It had been weeks since anyone had dared to visit her. A thin girl dressed in a ragged tunic scrambled up the slope.

Letting out a long sigh, Emerahl looked at the houses again and thought back to when the first people had arrived. A few men had found their way up the cliffs from a single boat and camped in the area. Smugglers, she had guessed. They .had erected makeshift huts, dismantling and rebuilding them several times over the first months until they found an area sheltered enough from the regular storms for the huts to remain standing. They had approached her once, thinking to rob her, and she had taught them to respect her desire to be left alone.

The men had left and returned regularly, and soon the single boat was accompanied by another, then more. One day a fishing boat arrived full of cargo and women. Soon there was the thin cry of a baby at night, then another. Babes became children and some lived to become adults. The girls became mothers too young, and many did not survive the experience. All villagers were lucky to live into their forties.

They were a tough, ugly people.

Their rough ways mellowed with each generation and with the influence of outsiders. Some newcomers came to establish trade, and a few stayed. Houses made of local stone replaced the huts of scavenged materials. The village grew. Domestic animals were let loose to graze on the tough grasses of the cliff top. Small, carefully maintained vegetable plots defied the salt air, storms and poor soil.

Occasionally one of the villagers would trek up to the lighthouse seeking cures and advice from the wise woman there. Emerahl tolerated this because they brought gifts: food, cloth, small trinkets, news of the world. She was not averse to a little trade if it brought a small variation to her days and diet.

The villagers did not always make good use of Emerald’s remedies, however. One wife came for velweed for her hemorrhoids, but used it to poison her husband. Another man was sent to Emerahl by his wife for a cure for impotence, then, after his next journey away, came in search of a cure for genital warts. If Emerahl had known that the Gifted boy who wanted to learn how to stun fish and make fires was going to use these abilities to torment the village simpleton she would not have taught him anything at all.

But she was not to blame for any of this. What people decided to do with what they bought from her was their problem. If a wise woman hadn’t been available, the wife would have found another way to kill her husband, the unfaithful husband would have strayed anyway - though perhaps with less gusto - and the Gifted bully would have used stones and fists.

The village girl was getting closer now. What would she ask for? What would she offer in return? Emerahl smiled. People fascinated and repelled her. They were capable of being amazingly kind and ferociously cruel. Emerahl’s smile twisted. She had placed the villagers somewhere closer to the cruel side of humanity.

She moved to the top of the stairs and began to descend. By the time the girl appeared, panting and wide-eyed, in the doorless entrance of the lighthouse, Emerahl was most of the way down. She stopped. A quick channelling of power set the small pile of sticks and branches in the center of the floor burning. The girl stared at the fire, then looked up at Emerahl fearfully.

She looks so scrawny and worn out. But then, so do I.

“What do you want, girl?” Emerahl demanded.

“They say... they say you help people.”

The voice was small and subdued. Emerahl guessed this girl did not like to attract attention to herself. Looking closer, she saw the signs of physical development in the girl’s face and body. She would become an attractive woman, in a thin, scrawny way.

“You want to charm a man?”

The girl flinched. “No.”

“You want to un-charm a man, then?”

“Yes. Not just one man,” the girl added. “All men.”

Emerahl cackled quietly and continued down the stairs. “All men, eh? One day you might make an exception.”

“I don’t think so. I hate them.”

“What about your father?”

“Him most of all.”

Ah, typical teenager. But as Emerahl reached the bottom of the stairs she saw a wild desperation in the girl’s eyes. She sobered. This was no sulky rebellious child. Whatever unwanted attentions the girl was enduring had her terrified.

“Come over by the fire.”

The girl obeyed. Emerahl waved to an old bench she had found on the beach below the cliffs after a shipwreck, long before the village existed.

“Sit.”

The girl obeyed. Emerahl lowered herself onto the pile of blankets she used as a bed, her knees creaking.

“There are potions I can make that will take the wind out of a man’s sails, if you know what I mean,” she told the girl. “But dosing a man is dangerous, and temporary. Potions are no use unless you know what’s coming and can plan for it.”

“I thought you might make me ugly,” the girl said quickly. “So they don’t want to come near me.”

Emerahl turned to stare at the girl, who flushed and looked at the ground.

“There’s no safety in ugliness, if a man is drunk and capable of closing his eyes,” she said in a low voice. “And, as I said, one day you might want to make an exception.”

The girl frowned, but remained silent.

“I’m guessing there’s nobody down there willing or able to defend your virtue, or you wouldn’t have come,” Emerahl continued. “So I’ll have to teach you to do it yourself.”

She caught at a chain around her neck and drew it over her head. The girl caught her breath as she saw the pendant hanging from it. It was a simple hardened droplet of sap, taken from a dembar tree. In the light of the fire it glowed a deep orange. Emerahl held it at arm’s length.

“Look at it closely.”

The girl obeyed, her eyes wide.

“Listen to my voice. I want you to keep your eyes on this droplet. Look inside it. See the color. At the same time, be aware of the warmth of the fire beside you.” Emerahl continued talking, watching the girl’s face carefully. When the intervals between the girl’s blinks had lengthened, she moved her foot. The eyes fixed on the pendant did not shift. Nodding to herself, she told the girl to reach toward the droplet. Slowly the girl’s hand extended.

“Now stop, just there, close but not quite touching the droplet. Feel the heat of the fire. Can you feel the heat?”

The girl nodded slowly.

“Good. Now imagine that you are drawing heat from the fire. Imagine that your body is full of its gentle warmth. Do you feel warm? Yes. Now send that warmth to the droplet.”

At once the sap began to glow. The girl blinked, then stared at the pendant in amazement. The glow faded again.

“What happened?”

“You just used a little magic,” Emerahl told her. She lowered the pendant and put it back around her neck.

“I have Gifts?”

“Of course you do. Every man and woman has Gifts. Most don’t have much more than what it takes to light a candle. You have more Gift than that, however.”

The girl’s eyes were bright with excitement. Emerahl chuckled. She had seen that expression many times before. “But don’t go thinking you’re going to be a great sorceress, girl. You’re not that Gifted.”

That had the desired sobering effect. “What can I do?”

“You can persuade others to think twice before paying you more attention than you want. A simple shock of pain as a warning, and a numbing for those who don’t take it or are too drunk to feel pain. I’ll teach you both - and give you a little piece of advice to go with it. Learn the art of the flattering or humorous refusal. You might wish to see them robbed of their dignity, but a wounded pride will crave revenge. I have no time to teach you something as complex as how to unlock a door or stop a knife.”

The girl nodded soberly. “I’ll try, though I’m not sure it’ll work on my father.”

Emerahl hesitated. So it was like that. “Well, then. I’ll teach you these tricks tonight, but you must practice them afterward. It’s like playing a bone whistle. You might remember how a tune goes, but if you don’t practice playing it your fingers lose the knack.”

The girl nodded again, this time eagerly. Emerahl paused to regard her student wistfully. Though this one’s life had been hard, she was still so blissfully ignorant of the world, still full of hope. She looked down at her own withered hands. Am I any different, despite all the years I have on her? My time is long past and the world has moved on, but I’m still clinging to life. Why do I, the last of my kind, continue on like this?

Because I can, she replied to herself.

Smiling crookedly, she began to teach yet another young girl how to defend herself.

3

The Temple did not post guards at its entrance. In principle, all were free to enter. Once inside, however, visitors needed directing to those who could best serve their needs, so all initiates to the priesthood spent some of their time employed as guides.

Initiate Rimo didn’t mind this part of his duties. Most of the time it involved wandering along the paths of the Temple, basking in the sunshine and telling people where to go, which was much easier and more satisfying than lessons on law and healing. Something amusing happened during nearly every shift, and afterward he and his fellow initiates would gather together and compare stories.

After several days of greeting visiting monarchs, nobles and other dignitaries, none of the initiates were particularly impressed by tales of meeting important people anymore. Stories of the strange antics of ordinary visitors hadn’t regained their popularity, either. Rimo knew that only something as extraordinary as meeting Auraya of the White would gain him any admiration, and there was as much chance of that as...

Rimo stopped and stared in disbelief as a tall, bearded man walked through the White Arch. A Dreamweaver? Here? He had never seen one of the heathens in the Temple before. They wouldn’t dare enter the most sacred of Circlian places.

Rimo glanced around, expecting to see someone hurrying after the Dreamweaver. His stomach sank as he realized he was the only guide standing close by. For a moment he considered pretending he hadn’t noticed the heathen, but that might be regarded as being just as bad as inviting the man into the sacred buildings. With a sigh, Rimo forced himself to go after the man.

As he drew near, the Dreamweaver stopped and turned to regard him. I only have to find out what he wants, Rimo told himself. And then tell him to leave. But what if he won’t go? What if he tries to force his way in? Well, there’re plenty of priests about to help if it comes to that.

“May I assist you?” Rimo asked stiffly.

The Dreamweaver’s gaze fixed somewhere past Rimo’s head. Or perhaps inside his head.

“I have a message to deliver.”

The heathen drew a cylinder out from under his robes. Rimo frowned. A message to deliver? That would mean allowing the heathen to continue further into the Temple grounds, perhaps even enter the buildings. He couldn’t let that happen.

“Give it to me,” he demanded. “I will see that it is delivered.”

To Rimo’s relief, the Dreamweaver handed him the scroll. “Thank you,” he said, then turned and walked back toward the gate.

Rimo looked down at the cylinder in his hands. It was a simple wooden message-holder. As he read the recipient’s name inked onto the side he drew in a quick breath of astonishment. He stared at the Dreamweaver. This was just too strange. The recipient was “High Priestess Auraya.” Why was a heathen delivering messages to Auraya of the White?

Perhaps the man had stolen it in order to see the contents. Rimo examined the cylinder carefully, but the seal was whole and there were no signs of tampering. Still, it was too strange. Other priests might ask questions. He considered the retreating man’s back, then made himself stride forward in pursuit.

“Dreamweaver.”

The man stopped and looked back, and his brow creased with a frown.

“How is it that you were charged with the delivery of this message?” Rimo demanded.

The man’s lips thinned. “I wasn’t. I encountered the courier a few days ago, drunk and unconscious beside the road. Since I am acquainted with the recipient, and was headed in this direction, I decided to bring it myself.”

Rimo glanced at the name on the scroll. Acquainted with the recipient? Surely not. Still, it was always better to be cautious.

“Then I will see she gets this immediately,” he said.

Rimo turned away quickly and started toward the White Tower. After several steps he glanced back and saw that, to his relief, the Dreamweaver had passed through the arched entrance of the Temple and was walking toward the west side of the city. He looked at the recipient’s name again and smiled. If he was lucky, he might get to deliver this personally. Now that would be a story to tell.

Feeling excitement growing, he lengthened his stride and hurried toward the entrance of the White Tower.

The Sennon ambassador began another long digression into a story from his land’s history - something his people were in the habit of doing when making a point. Auraya’s expression shifted slightly. To all who had observed this meeting she would have appeared absorbed by the man’s conversation. Danjin was beginning to read her better and saw signs of forced patience. Like most plain-speaking Hanians, she was finding the Sennon’s endlessly embellished conversation tedious.

“We would be honored, indeed pleased beyond rapture, if you were to visit the city of stars. Since the gods chose the great Juran a century ago we have been blessed with only nine opportunities to receive and accommodate the Gods’ Chosen. It would be wonderful, do you not agree, if the newest of the gods’ representatives should be the next to walk the streets of Karienne and climb the dunes of Hemmed?”

That’s all? Danjin suppressed a sigh. The ambassador’s elaborate speech had been leading to nothing more than an invitation to visit his country. Though he is also pointing out that the White rarely visit Sennon. It would be no surprise if the Sennons were feeling a bit neglected.

The trouble was, Sennon was separated from Hania by a mountain range and a desert, and the road to Karienne was a long and difficult one. Dunway was also located across the mountains, but could at least be reached by sea. Sennon’s main port was situated on the opposite end of the continent. In good weather a sea journey could take months. In bad, it could take longer than the overland route. If Sennon did eventually become an ally, the White would have to make that journey more often.

Danjin suspected that the other reason the White were reluctant to invest time in the journey was that a large number of Sennons still worshipped dead gods. The emperors of Sennon, past and present, had always supported the belief that their people should be free to worship whoever and whatever they wanted, and that whether the gods these people worshipped were real or not wasn’t for rulers to decide. They would probably continue to do so as long as the Sennon “religion tax” added to their wealth.

Only one cult objected to the situation as loudly as Circlians. They called themselves the Pentadrians. Like the Circlians, they followed five gods, but that was the only similarity. Their gods did not exist, so they beguiled their followers with tricks and enchantments. It was said the Pentadrians sacrificed slaves to these gods, and indulged in orgiastic fertility rituals. No doubt these acts ensured that their followers did not dare to doubt the existence of their gods, lest he or she find there had been no justification for their depravity.

Auraya glanced at Danjin and he felt his face heat with embarrassment. He was supposed to be paying attention to the ambassador’s continuing ramble in order to provide her with a ready source of insight. I guess I was providing insight - just not the kind she can use right at this moment.

The door to the room opened and Dyara entered. Danjin noted with amusement the way the older woman examined Auraya critically, like a mother looking for faults in her child’s behavior. He resisted a smile. It would take time before Auraya carried herself with the same air of self-assurance that Dyara had. Auraya was in an interesting position, having moved from one of the highest positions a mortal priestess could attain to what was, as far as age and experience went, the lowest position among the immortals.

“A message has arrived from your home, Auraya,” Dyara said. “Do you wish to receive it now?”

Auraya’s eyes brightened. “Yes. Thank you.”

Dyara stepped aside, allowing an initiate of the priesthood to enter and hesitantly present a message cylinder.

Auraya smiled at the young man, then blinked in surprise. As Dyara ushered the messenger from the room Auraya broke the seal and tipped out a slip of paper. Danjin could see that there were few marks on the vellum. He heard a sharply indrawn breath and looked at Auraya closely. She had turned pale.

Auraya glanced at Dyara who frowned and turned to the ambassador. “I trust you have enjoyed your visit to the Temple, Ambassador Shemeli. Might I accompany you on your way out?”

The man hesitated, then bowed slightly. “I would be most honored, Dyara of the White.” He formed a circle with both hands and bowed his head to Auraya. “It was a pleasure speaking to you, Auraya of the White. I hope that we may continue our acquaintance soon.”

She met his eyes and nodded. “As do I.”

As Dyara drew the man out of the room, Danjin studied Auraya closely. The newest White was gazing intently at a vase, but he was sure it was not the subject of her attention. Was that a glitter of tears in her eyes?

Danjin looked away, not wanting to discomfort her by staring. As the silence continued he began to feel uncomfortable. There was something a little unsettling about seeing one of the White tearful, he mused. They were supposed to be strong. In control. But she isn’t exactly an old hand at this, he reminded himself. And I’d prefer that those who guided humans in matters of law and morality still had human feelings rather than none at all.

The door opened and Dyara stepped inside again, her hand lingering on the door handle.

“I’m sorry, Auraya. Spend the rest of the day as you wish. I will come and see you this evening when I am free.”

“Thank you,” Auraya replied softly.

Dyara looked at Danjin then nodded toward the door. He rose and followed her out of the room.

“Bad news?” he asked when the door had closed.

“Her mother has died.” Dyara grimaced. “It is unfortunate timing. Go home, Danjin Spear. Come back tomorrow at the usual time.”

Danjin nodded and made the sign of the circle. Dyara strode away. He looked down the corridor toward the staircase, then back at the door of the room he had just left. A free afternoon. He hadn’t had a moment to himself for several days. He could visit the Grand Market and spend some of the money he was earning on gifts for his wife and daughters. He could do some reading.

A memory of Auraya’s pale face slipped into his mind. She will be grieving, he thought. Is there anyone here to comfort her? A friend? Maybe one of the priests?

All ideas of visiting markets and reading evaporated. He sighed and knocked on the door. After a pause, the door opened. Auraya looked at him questioningly, then smiled wanly as she read his mind.

“I’ll be fine, Danjin.”

“Is there anything I can do? Someone I can fetch?”

She shook her head, then frowned. “Perhaps there is. Not to fetch, but to locate. Find out where the man who delivered the message to the Temple is staying. The initiate, Rimo, should be able to describe him. If he is who I suspect he is, his name is Leiard.”

Danjin nodded. “If he’s still in the city, I’ll find him.”

Not far to his left, three women were standing at a table preparing the night’s meal. They were barely aware of their hands deftly kneading, stirring or slicing as they chatted among themselves, discussing the coming marriage of their employer’s daughter.

Behind, and farther away, a man had reached an almost meditative state of mind as he shaped the clay between his hands into a bowl. Satisfied, he cut it from the wheel with a length of wire and set it down among the others he had made, then reached for some more clay.

To the right, a youth hurried past, tired and dispirited. His parents had fought yet again. As always, it had ended in the dull thud of fists on flesh and whimpers of pain. He considered the foreigners who still filled the market, seemingly oblivious to the existence of pickpockets, and his heart lightened. Easy pickings tonight.

Far to the right, but louder, a mother was arguing with her daughter. The fight ended with a surge of satisfaction and anger as the daughter slammed the door between them.

Leiard drew in a deep breath and let these and other minds fade from his senses. The ache in his body had changed to a more bearable weariness. He was tempted to lie down and sleep, but that would leave him wakeful in the evening, and he had already endured enough restless nights wondering if he had made the right decision in taking the message from the courier.

Someone had to take it, he thought. Why did Fa-Dyer trust that boy to deliver it?

The harvest was probably underway. Few could be spared for the task of delivering a message. The boy might have offered to take it in order to get out of the hard work. Fa-Dyer must not have known of his lazy nature.

Leiard had managed to extract enough from the drink-befuddled boy to work out why Auraya’s father had sent a message rather than ask Priest Avorim to communicate it mentally. The priest was sick. He’d collapsed several days before.

So, with the priest ill, Fa-Dyer had no choice but to send a courier. Leiard had no idea how ill Priest Avorim was. The old man could be dying. If he didn’t find another courier Auraya might not receive the news of her mother’s death.

Ironically, Leiard had only encountered the drunken courier because Ma-Dyer’s death had freed him to leave. Every year he travelled to a town a few days’ walk from Oralyn to buy cures he could not make himself. The boy had given him what remained of the money Fa-Dyer had provided for food and board, but when Leiard reached the town he discovered it was not enough to buy another courier’s services.

Leiard had considered taking the message to the town’s priest, but when he imagined himself explaining how he came by it he could not see any priest believing him. That left him with two choices: take the message back to Fa-Dyer, who did not need an extra source of disappointment and distress right now, or deliver it himself. He only had to hand it over to one of the gatekeepers of the Temple, he’d reasoned.

But there hadn’t been any gatekeepers or guards. Remembering the moment when he had arrived at the Temple entrance, Leiard felt his skin prickle. He had been too preoccupied with the bustle of people around him to notice the great white Tower stretching above the city buildings. Only when he had reached the archway over the Temple entrance did he see it.

Something about it chilled him to the core. A part of him had felt wonder and admiration for the skill that must have gone into its creation. Another part of him shrank away, urging him to turn and leave as quickly as possible.

His determination to deliver the message kept him there. He hadn’t travelled this far only to scurry away. But there had been nobody at the entrance for him to give the message to, and none of the priests and priestesses within looked inclined to approach him. He’d had to pass through the arch in order to gain anyone’s attention. After he had passed the message to a young priest he had left quickly, relieved to be free of it at last.

Jarime had grown and changed since he had last visited, but that was the nature of cities. The dense mix of people was both stimulating and wearying. It had taken several hours of walking before he found a boarding place for Dreamweavers. It was owned by Tanara and Millo Baker, a couple of modest income who had inherited a small apartment block. Their son, Jayim, had chosen to become a Dreamweaver, inspiring them to offer lodging to Dreamweavers who passed through the city. They lived on the first floor and rented the ground floor to shopkeepers.

Tanara had shown him to a room and left him there to rest. Leiard could not resist the temptation to enter a trance in order to skim the thoughts of the urban dwellers around him. They were like people everywhere, immersed in lives that were as varied as the fish in the ocean. Bright and dark. Hard and easy. Generous and selfish. Hopeful. Determined. Resigned. He had also sensed the mind of his hostess in the kitchen below, thinking she must call Leiard to dinner soon. She was also hoping he would help her son.

Taking another deep breath, Leiard opened his eyes. Jayim’s teacher had died last winter and no Dreamweaver had chosen to replace him. Leiard knew he must disappoint them again. He would be returning to the village tomorrow. Even if he had wanted to take on another student, Jayim would have to return with him. The Bakers would probably rather Jayim remained untaught than have him leave them.

If Jayim wanted to come with me, would I take him? Leiard felt the pull of obligation. Dreamweavers were few in number now, and it would be a shame if this youth gave up for lack of teachers. Perhaps when he met the boy he would consider it. He had, after all, been prepared to teach Auraya if she had wanted it.

Standing up, he stretched and moved to a narrow bench where Tanara had placed a large basin of water and some rough towels. He washed himself slowly, dressed in his spare set of tunic and trousers and shrugged into his Dreamweaver vest. Leaving the room, he moved into the communal area at the center of the house and found Tanara sitting on an old cushion, her brow furrowed with concentration. Bread was cooking on a large flat stone suspended on two bricks. There was no fire beneath the stones, so she must be using magic to heat them.

“Dreamweaver Leiard,” she said, the wrinkles deepening around her eyes as she smiled. “We don’t have any servants and I prefer to cook than buy that muck from the shop next door. I’ve only eaten their food twice, and was sick both times. They are prompt with the rent, though, so I shouldn’t complain.” She nodded toward a doorway. “Jayim has returned.”

Leiard turned to see a young man sprawled on an old wooden bench in the next room. His Dreamweaver vest lay on the floor beside him. Sweat stained his tunic.

“Jayim, this is Dreamweaver Leiard,” Tanara called out. “Keep him company while I finish here.”

The young Dreamweaver looked up and, seeing Leiard, blinked in surprise. He straightened on the bench as Leiard moved into the room. “Hello,” he said.

“Greetings,” Leiard replied. No traditional welcome from this one, then. Was it lack of training, or simply disdain for ritual?

Leiard sat in a chair opposite Jayim. He looked at the vest. The boy followed his gaze, then quickly picked it up and draped it over the back of the bench.

“Bit hot today, isn’t it?” he said. “Have you been to the city before?”

“Yes. Long ago,” Leiard replied.

“How long ago?”

Leiard frowned. “I’m not sure exactly.”

The boy shrugged. “Then it must be a long time ago. Has it changed a lot?”

“I noted a few changes, but I cannot judge well as I have seen only part of the city since I arrived this afternoon,” Leiard replied. “It sounds as though eating at the street shops is as perilous as it has always been.”

Jayim chuckled. “Yes, but there are some good ones. Will you be staying long?”

Leiard shook his head. “No, I leave tomorrow.”

The boy did not hide his relief well. “Back to... where was it?”

“Oralyn.”

“Where is that?”

“Near the Dunwayan border, at the base of the mountains.”

Jayim opened his mouth to speak, but froze at the sound of knocking. “Someone’s at the door, Mother.”

“Then answer it.”

“But...” Jayim looked at Leiard. “I’m keeping our guest company.”

Tanara sighed and stood up. She crossed to the main door, out of sight. Leiard listened to the slap of her sandals on the tiled floor. He heard the sound of a door opening, then female voices. Two sets of footsteps returned.

“We have a customer,” Tanara announced as she entered the room. A woman wrapped in a generous swathe of dark cloth entered. The cloth was draped over her head, hiding her face.

“I haven’t come for healing,” the woman said. “I am here to see an old friend.”

The voice sent a shiver up Leiard’s spine, but he was not sure why. He found himself rising to his feet. The woman pulled back the cloth from her head and smiled.

“Greetings, Dreamweaver Leiard.”

Her face had changed. She had lost all the roundness of childhood, revealing an elegant jaw and brow and high cheekbones. Her hair had been dressed into an elaborate style favored by the rich and fashionable. She seemed taller.

But her eyes were the same. Large, expressive and bright with intelligence, they gazed at him searchingly. She must be wondering if I remember her, he thought. I do, but not like this.

Auraya had grown into a strikingly beautiful woman. It would never have been apparent in the village. She would have seemed too fragile and thin. The fashion of the city suited her better.

The fashion of the city? She did not come here to be fashionable, but to become a priestess. At that thought he remembered his hosts. Knowing they had a Circlian priestess in their house might frighten them - especially a high priestess. At least Auraya had the sense to cover her priestess’s clothes. He turned to Tanara.

“Is there a place the lady and I might talk privately?”

Tanara smiled. “Yes. On the roof. It’s nice out there on a summer evening. Follow me.”

The woman led them through the communal room to the staircase opposite the main door. As he emerged onto the roof, Leiard was surprised to find it was covered with potted plants and worn wooden seats. He could see neighboring apartments and other people relaxing in rooftop gardens.

“I’ll get you some cool drinks,” Tanara said, then disappeared downstairs.

Auraya sat down opposite Leiard and sighed. “I should have sent you a message warning that I was coming. Or arranged to meet you somewhere. But as soon as I learned you were here...” She smiled crookedly. “I had to come straightaway.”

He nodded. “You need to talk about your mother with someone who knew her,” he guessed.

Her smile faded. “Yes. How did she... ?”

“Age and sickness.” He spread his hands. “Her illness took a greater toll as she grew older. Eventually it was going to defeat her.”

Auraya nodded. “So that was all? Nothing else?”

He shook his head. “It is easy, after a long time keeping a sickness at bay, to be surprised when it claims a person.”

She grimaced. “Yes - especially when the timing is... unfortunate.” She let out a long sigh. “How is Father?”

“He was well when I left. Grieving, of course, but also accepting.”

“You told the initiate that you found the message in the hands of a drunken courier. Do you know why Priest Avorim has not contacted me?”

“The courier claims he is sick.”

She nodded. “He must be so old now. Poor Avorim. I gave him such a hard time during his lessons. And you.” She looked up and gazed at him, smiling faintly. “It’s strange. I recognize you, but you look different.”

“How so?”

“Younger.”

“Children think all adults are old.”

“Especially when those adults have white hair,” she said. She pulled at the cloth covering her. “It’s a bit hot to be so dressed up,” she continued. “I was worried that if people saw me arrive it would bring your hosts trouble.”

“I’m not sure what it is like for Dreamweavers in the city.”

“But you believe your hosts would be frightened if they knew who I was,” she guessed.

“Probably.”

She frowned. “I don’t want them to fear me. I don’t like it. I wish...” She sighed. “But who am I to want to change the way people are?”

He regarded her closely. “You are in a better position than most.”

She stared at him, then smiled self-consciously. “I guess I am. The question is: Will the gods allow it?”

“You’re not thinking of asking, are you?”

Her eyebrows rose. “Maybe.”

Seeing the bright glint in her eye, Leiard felt an unexpected affection for her. It seemed some of the curious, relentlessly questioning child remained in her. He wondered if she let her peers encounter it, and how well they coped.

I can even imagine her drilling the gods about the nature of the universe, he thought, laughing silently to himself. Then he sobered. Asking questions is easy. Making change is harder.

“When do you plan to leave?” she asked.

“Tomorrow.”

“I see.” She looked away. “I had hoped you might be staying longer. Perhaps a few days. I’d like to talk to you again.”

He considered her request. Just a few days. Footsteps from the staircase hailed the return of Tanara. She appeared carrying a tray bearing pottery goblets and a dish of dried fruit. She lowered the tray and offered it to Auraya. As Auraya reached out to take a goblet Tanara gasped and the tray dropped.

Leiard noticed Auraya’s fingers flex slightly. The tray stopped, the contents of the goblets sloshing, and remained suspended in the air. He looked up at Tanara. The woman was staring at Auraya. He realized that the cloth covering Auraya’s shoulders had slipped and the edge of her circ was showing.

He stood up and placed his hands on Tanara’s shoulders. “You have nothing to fear,” he said soothingly. “Yes, she is a priestess. But she is also an old friend of mine. From the village near my—”

Tanara gripped his hand, her eyes wide. “Not a priestess,” she gasped. “More than a priestess. She’s... she’s...” She stared at Leiard. “You’re a friend of Auraya of the White?”

“I...” Auraya of the what? He looked down at Auraya, who wore a grimace of embarrassment. He looked at the circ. It bore no gold edging of a high priestess. It bore no edging at all.

“When did this happen?” he found himself asking.

She smiled apologetically. “Nine, ten days ago.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was waiting for the right moment.”

Tanara let go of Leiard’s hand. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to spoil the surprise.”

Auraya laughed ruefully. “It doesn’t matter.” She took the tray and put it on the bench beside her. “I should be apologizing for causing you so much distress. I should have arranged to meet Leiard elsewhere.”

Tanara shook her head. “No! You’re welcome here. Any time you wish to visit please don’t hesitate to—”

Auraya’s eyes narrowed a fraction, then she smiled broadly and stood up. “Thank you, Tanara Baker. That means more to me than you can know. But for now I feel I must apologize for disrupting your evening.” She drew the cloth close around herself. “And I should return to the Temple.”

“Oh...” Tanara looked at Leiard apologetically. “I’ll take you to the door.”

“Thank you.”

As the two women left, Leiard slowly sat down. Auraya is one of the White.

Bitterness overwhelmed him. He had seen the potential in her. She was intelligent but not arrogant. She was curious about other peoples, but not contemptuous of them. Her ability to learn and use Gifts was greater than any student he had taught.

Of course they had chosen her. He’d even told himself that it was better that she had joined the Circlians, because with the restrictions of a Dreamweaver life much of her potential would be wasted.

And how much better is it now that she is one of the immortal White? he asked himself bitterly. The world can benefit from her talents forevermore.

And her loss will torment you for all eternity.

The thought startled him. It sounded like his own mental voice, yet it felt like the mental voice of another person.

“Leiard?”

He looked up. Tanara had returned.

“Are you well?”

“A little surprised,” he said dryly.

Tanara moved to the opposite seat. The one Auraya had been sitting in. “You didn’t know?”

He shook his head. “It seems my little Auraya has come much further in the world than I thought.”

“Your little Auraya?”

“Yes. I knew her as a child. Taught her, too. She probably knows more about Dreamweaver healing than any priest or priestess.”

Tanara’s eyebrows rose. She looked away, her expression thoughtful. Then she shook her head. “I can barely comprehend this,” she said in a hushed voice. “You’re a friend of Auraya of the White.”

From behind them came a choking sound. Leiard turned to find Jayim standing on the staircase, his eyes wide in surprise at what he’d overheard.

“Jayim,” Tanara said, leaping up and pushing her son back inside. “You can’t tell anybody about this. Listen—”

Leiard rose and followed them down the stairs, going into his room. His dirty clothes still hung over the back of a chair. His bag was half empty, its contents spread over the bed. Sitting down, he swiftly stowed everything away again. As he placed the dirty robe in the top of his bag, he heard footsteps and turned to see Tanara stop in the doorway. She glanced at the bag and her expression hardened.

“I thought so,” she muttered. “Sit down, Leiard. I want to talk with you before you run off to your forest home.”

He lowered himself onto the bed reluctantly. She sat down next to him.

“Let me just check what I have heard. You said you taught Auraya when she was a child. You mean Dreamweaver lore?”

He nodded. “I had hoped she might join me.” He shook his head. “Well, you can see how that turned out.”

Tanara patted him on the shoulder. “It must have been frustrating. Strange that the gods would choose her, then. Surely they must know she was taught by a Dreamweaver.”

“Perhaps they knew where her heart truly lay,” he muttered bitterly.

Tanara ignored that. “It must have been odd talking to her again, even when you thought she was merely a high priestess. You sounded like you were getting along well enough when I arrived. Obviously you didn’t notice any change. You would have if this Choosing had turned her into someone different.”

“I know I said we were friends,” he replied. “But I said that to reassure you. Until today I hadn’t seen her in ten years.”

Tanara absorbed that silently.

“Consider this, Leiard,” she murmured after a while. “Auraya obviously wants to continue to be your friend. One of the White wanting to be friends with a Dreamweaver ought to be impossible, but it clearly isn’t. And if Auraya of the White is friends with a Dreamweaver, maybe other Circlians will treat Dreamweavers better.” Her voice lowered. “Now, you’ve got two choices. You can leave and return to your forest, or you can stay here with us and keep this friendship going.”

“It’s not that simple,” he argued. “There are risks. What if the other White disapprove?”

“I doubt they’d do anything more than tell you to leave.” She leaned closer. “I think that’s worth the risk.”

“And if the people decide they don’t like it? They might take matters into their own hands.”

“If she values your friendship she’ll stop them.”

“She might not be able to - especially if the White will not support her.”

Tanara leaned back to regard him. “I don’t deny there are risks. I only ask that you consider. You must do what your heart tells you.”

Standing up, she left the room, drawing the door shut behind her. Leiard closed his eyes and sighed.

Tanara is ignoring one simple fact; the gods would not have chosen anyone sympathetic to Dreamweavers, he told himself.

But they had chosen Auraya. Either she had developed a dislike of Dreamweavers, or they were playing a different game. He considered the possibilities. If they took an intelligent and Gifted woman who was sympathetic to Dreamweavers and caused her to turn against them, she might bring a new and fatal force to the Circlian hatred of heathens. She might be the one to destroy us completely.

And if he ran away and left her, alone and grieving, he might be the first to give her a reason to resent his people.

Curse the gods, he thought. I have to stay. At least until I know what’s going on.

4

The heat from the summer sun was stronger on the upper slopes of the mountains. As Tryss felt sweat beginning to run down his brow again, he straightened and shook his head. Droplets landed on the frame of the harness and were quickly absorbed by the dry wood. He pulled off his string-reed vest and laid it aside. Then, bending closer, he carefully stretched strips of flexible gut between the harness joints.

Much of the harness lay in pieces. He was trying to duplicate the lever system so he could carry four spikes instead of two. Already he was beginning to doubt that he could get off the ground while carrying something this heavy. Perhaps he would have to haul it up a tree or a cliff before launching himself into the air.

That wouldn’t impress people, however. He had decided he wasn’t going to show anyone this new harness until he’d had several successful hunts. Whenever he brought a creature down he would let it sleep off the drug, but when the time came to prove himself he would butcher his catch and carry meat back to the Open. When the other Siyee saw his family feasting, their jeers and mockery would stop.

He paused to sigh. If only his cousins had followed him quietly instead of telling other Siyee what Tryss had claimed to have done. Then only they and Drilli would have been present when Tryss arrived to find the yern gone. Since that day the story of his wild claim had spread throughout the Open. He was teased constantly, sometimes by Siyee he didn’t even know.

A prick of pain stung his arm and he jumped. The gut string slipped from between his fingers and flicked away. He cursed and examined his arm. A small red dot had appeared. Had something stung him? He looked around, but could see no insect buzzing nearby that might have made such a bite.

Just as he was searching the ground for crawling insects he felt another sting, this time on his thigh. He looked down in time to see something small and round fall to the ground. Bending closer, he noticed a winnet seed among the stones of the rock face. They were bright green and hard to miss, especially as winnet seeds weren’t found this high up in the mountains. The small tree grew alongside creeks and rivers, not on dry rocky slopes.

A small click brought his attention back to the harness just in time for him to see another seed fall from the frame to the rocks, then roll away. He slowly disentangled himself from his invention and stood up, casting about. In the corner of his eye he saw a movement and felt a sting on his shoulder. He spun around and started toward a large rock near where he had seen the movement.

Then he heard his name whistled from above.

Looking up, he felt his heart jump as he recognized Drilli’s wing markings. He searched the sky quickly, but there was no sign of his cousins. His heart began to beat faster as she circled lower.

There was a broad grin on her face. “Tryss!” she called. “I think I lost...” Her gaze shifted away and he saw her smile change to a look of outrage. At the same time he felt another sting, this time on his cheek. He cursed in pain and put a hand to his face.

“Fools!” she shrieked. Tryss caught his breath as she dropped into a dive and landed beside the rock he had been heading toward. She disappeared and Tryss heard a slap, then a Siyee staggered out from behind the rock, arms raised to protect his head as Drilli swiped at him again and again.

Ziss! Tryss heard laughter from behind him and turned to find Trinn climbing up the rock shelf toward them. Drilli stormed over to him and snatched something out of his hands.

“I told you not to use them on Siyee!” she said. “What if you tore his wings? Stupid girri-brain! If I’d known you’d do something like this I’d never have made them for you.”

“We wouldn’t have got his wings,” Trinn said. “We’ve been practicing.”

“What on?” she demanded.

Trinn shrugged. “Trees. Rocks.”

“Girri?”

He looked away. “No.”

“It was you, wasn’t it? And you watched me spend half the night weaving string-reed mats to console Aunt Lirri. She thinks her girri died from neglect.”

“She was going to eat them anyway,” Ziss protested.

Drilli whirled around to glare at him. “You two disgust me. Go away. I don’t want to see you again.”

The cousins exchanged a look of dismay, though it was clear Ziss wasn’t as bothered by her words as Trinn. He shrugged and turned away, running a few steps then leaping into the sky.

“Sorry,” Trinn offered. When Drilli turned to glare at him he winced, then followed his brother.

Drilli watched them until they were small dark marks against the distant clouds near the horizon, then she turned to Tryss and grimaced.

“I’m sorry about that,” she said.

He shrugged. “Not your fault.”

“Yes, it is,” she replied, anger returning to her voice. “I know what they’re like. I shouldn’t have shown them what the pipes were for, let alone made them a set.”

He looked at the object in her hand. It was a long piece of reed. “Pipes?”

“Yes.” She smiled and held the tube out to him. “A blowpipe. We started using them in our village to hunt small animals. You put a missile in here and—”

“I know how they work,” Tryss said, then winced at his own terseness. “But I haven’t seen one used before,” he added in a more encouraging tone. “Could you show me?”

She smiled and plucked the tube from his hands. Taking something from her pocket, she slipped it into the pipe. He heard a faint click as it met with something else inside that must have prevented it from coming out the other end. She turned and pointed.

“See that rock over there that looks a bit like a foot?”

“Yes.”

“See the black stone oh the top?”

“Yes...” He glanced at her doubtfully. It was a long way away.

She put the pipe to her lips and blew into it quickly. Tryss barely saw the missile, but a moment later the black stone bounced off the rock and disappeared over the other side.

Tryss stared at Drilli in surprise. She’s not just pretty and strong, he thought. She’s clever as well. She looked back at him and grinned, and suddenly he didn’t know what to say. He felt his face beginning to heat.

“So is this where you disappear to?” she asked, her gaze sliding to the harness.

He shrugged. “Sometimes.”

She moved over to the harness and gazed down at it. “This is how you caught the yern, isn’t it?”

So she believed he’d actually caught one. Or was she just saying so to be nice.

“Um... yes.”

“Show me how it works.”

“It’s...it’s...” He waved his hands uselessly. “I’m changing it. It’s all in pieces.”

She nodded. “I understand. Another day, then. When you’re finished.” She sat down beside the harness. “Mind if I watch you work?”

“I suppose. If you want.” He dropped into a crouch and, conscious of her attention on him, rummaged in his pockets for more gut strings. She watched silently, and soon he began to feel uncomfortable.

“How long have your people been using blowpipes?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Years. My grandfather came up with the idea. He said we have to go backward instead of forward. Rather than trying to find a way to use swords and bows like the landwalkers, we should go back to simpler weapons.” She sighed. “It didn’t help, though. The landwalkers still drove us out of our village. We got a few with poisoned darts and traps, but there were too many.”

Tryss glanced at her sideways. “Do you think it would have turned out differently if you had been able to attack them from the air?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe; maybe not.” She looked at the harness. “Don’t know until we try. Are you... are you going to the Gathering tonight?”

Tryss shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“I’ve heard a landwalker arrived last night. Climbed over the mountains to get here. He’ll be at the Gathering.”

“They didn’t kill him?” Tryss asked, surprised.

“No. He’s not one of the people taking our land. He’s from far away.”

“What does he want?”

“Not sure exactly, but my father said something about this man being sent by the gods. To ask us to join something. If we do, other landwalkers might help us get rid of the ones taking our lands.”

“If they can do that, then they can take our lands themselves,” Tryss pointed out.

Drilli frowned. “I hadn’t thought of that. But the gods sent him. Surely Huan wouldn’t allow that if it meant we’d all be killed.”

“Who knows what the goddess intended?” Tryss said dryly. “Maybe she’s realized making us was a mistake, and this is a way to get rid of us.”

“Tryss!” Drilli said, shocked. “You shouldn’t speak of the goddess so.”

He smiled. “Perhaps not. But if she is watching, she will have heard me thinking that. And if she can hear me thinking that, then she can see that I don’t believe what I said.”

“Why say it then?”

“Because the possibility occurred to me, and I need to speak of it in order to realize I don’t believe it.”

Drilli stared at him, then shook her head. “You are a strange boy, Tryss.” She nodded at the harness. “Are you taking that to the Gathering tonight?”

“This? No. They’d laugh at me.”

“They might not.”

“I’ve shown people before. They think it’ll be impossible to fly with it, or that it will make flying clumsy and dangerous, and even if I prove them wrong they won’t believe it’s possible to hunt with one. And at the moment I’m not sure it’s going to work anyway. Two spikes don’t seem like enough. I’ve been trying to change it so it carries more, but... but... it’s complicated.”

“It looks it. But I’d give it a try. I wonder... could you make something that would allow me to use the blowpipe while flying?”

He looked at the pipe in her hands, then at the harness. She’d need some sort of frame to hold the pipe steady and a way to reload it with missiles. She could suck the missiles into the pipe from out of a bag. And the missiles were much smaller and lighter than spikes, so she could carry more... He sucked in a breath. But that was brilliant! As possibilities rushed through him, he felt his hands beginning to shake with excitement.

“Drilli,” he said.

“Mmm?”

“Can I... can I borrow that pipe?”

Auraya watched, fascinated, as her new pet chased an imaginary spider up the wall. He was a veez - a small, slim creature with a pointy nose, fluffy prehensile tail and large eyes that gave him excellent night vision. His soft toes splayed out across the painted surface, somehow allowing him to cling effortlessly to the wall - and now the ceiling. Stopping just above her, he suddenly dropped onto her shoulder.

“No fug,” he said, then leapt onto a chair and curled up with his speckled gray fluffy tail across his nose.

“No bug,” Auraya agreed. The animal’s most remarkable trait was the ability to speak, though he talked only of the matters that concerned a small creature, like food and comfort. She doubted she’d have any enlightening philosophical discussions with him.

A knocking came from the door. “Come in,” she called.

Dyara stepped inside. “Auraya. How are you this morning?”

“Owaya,” a small voice repeated. Dyara’s gaze shifted to the veez. “Ah, I see the Somreyan Council of Elders have delivered their customary gift for a new White.”

Auraya nodded. “Yes. Along with an amazingly elaborate array of toys and instructions.”

“Have you named him yet?”

“No.”

The older woman moved to the chair and extended a finger toward the veez. He sniffed, then cocked his head to one side and allowed Dyara to scratch behind his tiny pointed ears.

“Once you’ve learned to link your mind with his you’ll find him useful. Just show him a mental picture of an object and he’ll fetch it for you. He can find people, too, though it’s easier if you give him something they’ve touched to catch a scent from.”

“The instructions said they make good scouts.”

Dyara smiled. “Scouts being the polite term for spies. When you link with his mind you’ll be able to see what he sees - and since their night vision is excellent and they can get into places humans can’t, they do make good, ahem, scouts.” The veez’s eyes were closed in bliss at her scratching. “But you’ll find you’ll appreciate them as much for their nature. They’re affectionate and loyal.” She stopped scratching and straightened. The veez’s eyes opened wide and he stared up at her intently.

“Scatch?”

She ignored him and turned to Auraya. “We’ll be—”

“Scatch!”

“Enough,” she told him firmly. He ducked his head like a chastised child. “They can also be a bit demanding at this age. Just be firm with him.” She moved away from the chair, then looked at Auraya sidelong, her expression unreadable. Not for the first time, Auraya wished she could read the other woman’s mind as easily as she could now read most people’s.

“You said last night that you had visited an old friend in the afternoon,” Dyara said. “There are more than a few ‘scouts’ in the city who are anxious to prove themselves and gain work from me, who take it upon themselves to report what they see. This morning one of them claims that this friend you visited is a Dreamweaver. Is this true?”

Auraya regarded Dyara carefully. What should she say? But she would not lie to one of the White. Nor would she pretend to feel guilty for visiting her old friend.

“Yes,” she replied. “He is Dreamweaver Leiard, from my home village. I haven’t seen him in ten years. He brought the message of my mother’s death to the Temple. I wanted to thank him for that.”

“I gather he will be returning to his home again now that the message is delivered.”

“Probably.” Auraya shrugged. “I doubt he’ll stay here long. I can’t imagine city life would suit him. He has always been a solitary type.”

Dyara nodded. “The others will be at the Altar by now. We should not keep them waiting.”

Auraya felt her stomach flutter with both anxiety and excitement. For the first time she would sit with the other four White as they discussed their duties and responsibilities. They might give her a task to perform. If they did, she expected it would be a minor responsibility. Even if they didn’t, it would be interesting to hear what worldly matters they were involved in.

Dyara’s circ flared as she turned on her heel and strode to the door. Auraya followed. The cage was waiting for them. As they descended Auraya considered the ‘scouts’ Dyara had spoken of. She was disturbed by the news that strangers were watching her, but wondered if they truly had done so voluntarily. What was worse: that they had spied on her out of their own initiative, or that someone had asked them to?

Are my fellow White keeping an eye on me? If I arrange to meet Leiard again, will they try to discourage me? Should I let them? As the cage settled at the bottom of the stairwell, Auraya followed Dyara out. The gods chose me. They knew everything about me, including my friendship with Leiard and sympathy for Dreamweavers. If they hadn’t approved, they would have chosen someone else.

Or would they? Perhaps they tolerated that one aspect of her character in order to make use of others. However, until they told her not to, she would continue associating with Dreamweavers.

She shivered. When the news of her mother’s death had arrived she had feared the gods were making a point - that they were making it clear they disapproved of her use of a Dreamweaver’s services by killing her mother.

Ridiculous, she thought. The gods don’t work that way. When they want something, they tell you. Despite knowing this, she hadn’t been able to shake the fear until Leiard had assured her that her mother’s illness had been the cause of her death.

The air outside the Tower was warm and the sun’s heat promised a hot day to come. Dyara’s pace quickened. They reached the Dome, entered it and strode toward the dais and Altar at the center.

The other three White were waiting for them, seated at a circular table. Auraya felt her pulse racing as she drew closer, and memories of the Choosing Ceremony flashed through her mind. She followed Dyara onto the Altar.

“Welcome, Auraya,” Juran said warmly.

She smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Juran.”

As Dyara slipped into a seat, Auraya took the remaining chair. The five sides of the Altar began to move, hinging upward until their triangular points met. The walls glowed with a diffuse light.

Auraya glanced at the other White. Rian sat straight in his chair, but his gaze was distant. Even when he looked at Auraya, and acknowledged her with a nod, he seemed distracted. Mairae looked exactly as she had ten years before when she had come to Oralyn to negotiate with the Dunwayans. This evidence of the White’s immortality sent a shiver down Auraya’s spine. One day, she thought, someone will look at me and marvel at this sign of the gods’ powers.

Meeting Auraya’s gaze, Mairae smiled, then turned to look at Juran. The leader of the White had closed his eyes.

“Chaia, Huan, Lore, Yranna, Saru. Once again, we thank you for the peace and prosperity you have brought. We thank you for the opportunity to serve you. We thank you for the powers you have given us, that allow us to guide and help the men and women, old and young, of this world.”

“We thank you,” the others murmured. Auraya joined them, having been taught the ritual by Dyara.

“Today we will use the best of our wisdom in your service, but should we err in our judgment or work contrary to your great plans we ask you to speak to us and make your wishes known.”

“Guide us,” Auraya recited along with the others.

Juran opened his eyes and looked around the table.

“The gods have made it known to us that they wish for all of Northern Ithania to be united,” he said, looking at Auraya. “Not by war or conquest, but through a peaceful alliance. They wish for all the lands to choose and negotiate the terms of their alliance with us. Those lands that are not predominantly Circlian are more likely to ally with us for reasons of politics and trade rather than obedience to the gods. Peoples like the Siyee and Elai, who are suspicious of landwalkers, need to learn to trust us. Those peoples who are predominantly Circlian would obey an order from the gods, but if they felt an alliance was not fair or beneficial they would cause trouble for other lands.”

Juran looked at Dyara. “Let us discuss those allies we already have. Dyara?”

Dyara sighed and rolled her eyes. “The Arrins of Genria and the King of Toren are still antagonizing each other. Every time one of the Arrin families produces a son - which they seem to be doing every few months - Berro puts restrictions on imports from Genria. The royal high priest reminds him of the terms of the alliance, but it always takes several weeks for the restrictions to be lifted.”

“And the Genrians? How are they taking this?”

“With gritted teeth.” Dyara smiled. “It’s hardly their fault that Berro hasn’t produced a male. So far there have been remarkably few retaliatory moves. Every family with a boy is anxious to avoid offending the gods. Evidence, perhaps, that they have realized that Guire chose Laern as his successor because he was the only prince who hadn’t tried to murder another. But someone is making sure Berro hears promptly of the birth of every Arrin male.”

“Sounds like that someone ought to be found,” Juran said.

“Yes. The royal high priest is also encouraging Berro to adopt an heir, even if it is a temporary arrangement until he sires one. That might settle him down for now.”

Juran nodded, then turned to Mairae. “What of the Somreyans?”

Mairae grimaced. “They turned us down again.”

He frowned. “What was their reason this time?”

“A minor detail of the alliance terms. One member of the council protested against it, and others supported her.”

“It’s a wonder their country doesn’t fall apart,” Dyara said darkly. “Their council never agrees on anything. What was it this time?”

“The restriction that their Dreamweavers must only treat their own soldiers.”

“And this council member who protested is the Dreamweaver representative?”

Mairae nodded. “Yes. Dreamweaver Elder Arleej.” Auraya knew that this Dreamweaver elder was not only a member of the Council of Elders in Somrey, but the leader of the Dreamweavers. “I was surprised that others supported her. It is a minor point, and most of the council are keen to see this alliance signed. Keen enough to overlook something like this.”

“We knew Somrey would be difficult,” Rian said. “We can’t please every member of the council. Doing so would mean making too many compromises. I say we stand firm on this.”

Juran frowned and shook his head. “I don’t understand. We haven’t asked them to change any of their ways. Why can’t they do the same for us?”

The others shrugged or spread their hands helplessly. Juran looked at each, then his gaze settled on Auraya and his expression became thoughtful.

“You knew a Dreamweaver during your early years, didn’t you, Auraya?”

His question was not accusatory, or even disapproving. She nodded slowly, aware that Dyara was watching her closely.

“You probably have a better understanding of their ways than the rest of us. Can you explain why they’re resisting this term of the alliance?”

Auraya glanced around the table, then straightened.

“All Dreamweavers make an oath to heal any person who needs and wants it.”

Juran’s eyebrows rose. “So this term of the alliance requires Dreamweavers to break their oath. The council doesn’t want to force them, so they refuse to sign the treaty.” He looked at Dyara. “Does Auraya have time to read the proposed treaty?”

Dyara’s shoulders lifted. “I can make time for it in her schedule.”

Juran smiled. “I look forward to hearing any suggestions you have, Auraya.” She smiled back, but he had already turned away. “Rian. What of Dunway?”

Rian smiled faintly. “The alliance is holding firm. I have nothing to report.”

“And Sennon?”

“The emperor is still considering our proposal. I don’t believe he is any closer to a decision than he was five years ago.”

“That’s no surprise,” Dyara said, chuckling. “Nothing in Sennon ever happens quickly.”

Rian nodded. “Sennon was always going to be more difficult to court than Somrey. How much value can we place in an alliance with a country that cannot decide who or what to worship?”

Juran nodded in agreement, “I still feel it is best left to last. Perhaps, in the end, Sennon will fall into line when all the rest of Northern Ithania is united.” He straightened and smiled. “That leaves us with two more nations to discuss.”

Auraya noted that Mairae’s gaze had brightened, while Dyara’s lips had compressed into a skeptical smile.

“Si and Borra.” Juran linked the fingers of his hands together. “Several months ago I sent a courier to each country to deliver invitations for an alliance.”

Auraya felt a twinge of excitement. Stories of the winged people of the southern mountains and the water-breathing sea folk had always fascinated her. As she had grown older they had seemed too fantastic to be true, but both Priest Avorim and Leiard had assured her that such peoples did exist, though their description was often exaggerated.

“I’ll be impressed if any of those messengers arrive,” Dyara muttered darkly. Auraya looked at her in surprise. “Not that I think they’ll murder them,” she assured Auraya. “But the homes of the Siyee and Elai are not easy to reach, and they are suspicious and shy of ordinary humans.”

“I have chosen my couriers carefully,” Juran said. “Both have visited or traded with these peoples previously.”

At that, Dyara looked impressed. Juran smiled, then placed both hands on the table. His expression became serious.

“We have not yet considered the three lands of Southern Ithania: Mur, Avven and Dekkar.”

“The lands of the Pentadrian cult?” Rian asked, his expression disapproving.

“Yes.” Juran grimaced. “Their way of life and ethics may be incompatible with ours. The gods want all Northern Ithania united, not all Ithania. However, once Northern Ithania is united, the southern lands will be our neighbors. I have had our advisers gather information about these lands. Maps, drawings and reports of their beliefs and rituals.”

“Are there any descriptions of orgies?” Mairae asked.

“Mairae!” Dyara said reproachfully.

Juran’s lips had twitched into a smile at the question. “You’ll be disappointed to hear that the rumors of orgies are exaggerated. They have fertility rites, but only for married couples. Two does not make an orgy.”

Mairae shrugged. “At least I know I’m not missing out,” she murmured. Rian’s eyes rolled.

“Thinking of becoming a Pentadrian?” he asked, amused, then continued without waiting for an answer, “Then you’ll need to know you’re expected to obey the five leaders of the cult, who call themselves by the pretty title of ‘the Voices of the Gods,’ and the hierarchy of their followers known as ‘the Servants of the Gods.’ You’ll need to believe in their gods. You have to wonder how a cult so powerful can arise from a belief in gods that do not exist. You might expect them to fear the influence of other cults, but they actually encourage tolerance of them.”

Mairae pulled a face in mock disappointment. “I’m afraid that without the orgies Southern Ithania has no attraction for me.”

Juran chuckled. “That is a relief to hear. We would so hate to lose you.” He paused, then sighed. “Now, lastly, there is a darker matter to attend to. A few weeks ago I received several reports from eastern Toren of attacks by a hunt of vorns. These are no ordinary vorns. They’re twice the size of the usual creatures. Travellers, farmers and even merchant families have been killed by them.

“Several hunting teams were sent, but none have returned. A woman who witnessed them kill her husband outside her home claimed that a man was riding one of the creatures, and appeared to be directing them. I thought at first she had made a mistake. Vorns work so well together that they can appear to be directed by an outside force. Perhaps she imagined a man-shape in the darkness. There seems to be no human purpose to the attacks, either. The victims have nothing in common except that they were outside at night.

“But other witnesses have now confirmed her story. Some say he is directing them telepathically. If that is true, he must be a sorcerer. I have sent three village priests to investigate. Should this man prove to be a sorcerer I will contact you all telepathically so that you may witness the confrontation.” Juran straightened. “That is all I have to present today. Does anyone else have a matter to raise?”

Mairae shook her head. As Rian voiced a negative, Dyara glanced at Auraya, then shrugged.

“Nothing, for now.”

“Then I declare this meeting ended.”

5

The tower was taller than any she had seen. It was so high that clouds tore themselves upon it as they passed. Conflicting emotions warred within Emerahl. She should flee. Any moment they would see. But she wanted to look. Wanted to watch. Something about that white spire fascinated her.

She moved closer. As she did, the tower loomed over her. It seemed to flex. She realized too late that this was no illusion. Cracks had appeared, zigzagging along the seams of the huge stone bricks the tower had been built from. The tower was going to fall.

She turned and tried to run but the air was thick and syrupy and her legs were too weak to move through it. She could see the shadow of the tower lengthening before her. As it widened, she wondered why she hadn’t had the sense to run sideways, out of its path.

Then the world exploded.

Everything was abruptly dark and silent. She could not breathe. Voices called her name, but she could not draw enough breath to answer. Slowly the cold darkness crept in.

“Sorceress!”

The voice of the speaker was dark with anger, but it was a chance of rescue nonetheless.

“Come out, you meddling old bitch!”

Emerahl started out of the dream and opened her eyes. The round interior wall of the lighthouse disappeared into darkness above. She heard the sounds of approaching footsteps and the muttering of several voices coming from the opening in the wall where, in the past, two great carved doors had been. A broad-shouldered shape stood beyond.

“Come out, or we’ll come in and get you.”

The voice was full of threat and anger, but also a hint of fear. She shook off the lingering nightmare reluctantly - she would have liked time to analyze it before the details faded - and scrambled to her feet.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“I am Erine, Head of Corel. Come out now, or I’ll send my men to fetch you.”

Emerahl moved to the doorway. Outside stood fourteen men, some looking up at the lighthouse, some glancing behind, and the rest watching their leader. All wore a scowl and carried some kind of rough weapon. Clearly none could see her, as they were standing in the bright morning light and she was hidden in the shadows of the lighthouse.

“So that’s what you’re calling that ring of hovels nowadays,” she said, stepping into the doorway. “Corel. A pretty name for a place founded by smugglers.”

The broad-shouldered man all but bared his teeth in anger. “Corel is our home. You’d better show some respect or we’ll—”

“Respect?” She stared up at him. “You come up here shouting and putting out orders and threats, and you expect me to show you some respect?” She took a step forward. “Get back to your village, men of Corel. You’ll get nothing from me today.”

“We don’t want any of your poisons or tricks, sorceress.” Erine’s eyes gleamed. “We want justice. You’ve meddled one time too many. You won’t make any more women in our village into sorceress bitches. We’re turning you out.”

She stared at him in surprise, then slowly began to smile.

“So you‘re the father?”

His expression shifted. A moment’s fear, then anger.

“Yes. I’d kill you for what you did to my little Rinnie, but the others think that'll bring bad luck.”

“No, they just don’t feel like they’ve lost as much as you,” she said. “They were just trying their luck with Rinnie. Seeing what you’d let them get away with. But you,” she narrowed her eyes, “you’ve been enjoying her for years and now you can’t touch her. And you so like getting your way. It drives you crazy you can’t have her anymore.”

His face had turned red. “Shut your mouth,” he growled, “or I’ll—”

“Your own daughter,” she threw at him. “You come up here calling her ‘my little Rinnie’ like she’s some innocent child you love and protect. She stopped being an innocent child the first time she realized her own father was the man most likely to harm her.”

The other men were eyeing their leader uneasily now. Emerahl was not sure if their discomfort was from what she accused Rinnie’s father of, or because they had known what he was doing to his daughter and hadn’t stopped him. Erine, aware of their stares, controlled himself with an effort.

“Did she tell you that, you foolish old woman? She’s been making up such stories for years. Always looking for—”

“No, she didn’t,” Emerahl replied. She tapped her head. “I can see the truth, even when people don’t want me to.”

Which was not true; she hadn’t read the girl’s mind. Her skill in mind-reading was nothing like it had once been. All Gifts needed to be practiced and she had lived in isolation for too long.

But her words had the desired effect. The other men exchanged glances, some regarding Erine with narrowed eyes.

“We don’t want your lies or your cursed sorceries anymore,” Erine growled. He took a step forward. “I’m ordering you to leave.”

Emerahl smiled and crossed her arms. “No.”

“I am Head of Corel and—”

“Corel is down there.” She pointed. “I have lived here since before your grandfathers’ fathers built their first shack. You have no authority over me.”

Erine laughed. “You’re old, but you’re not that old.” He looked at his companions. “See how she lies?” He turned back. “The village doesn’t want you harmed. They want to give you the chance to pack up and leave in peace. If you’re still here when we come back in a few days, don’t expect us to be nice about it.”

At that, he turned and stalked away, gesturing for the others to follow. Emerahl sighed. Fools. They’ll come back and I’ll have to teach them the same lesson I taught their great-grandfathers. They’ll sulk for a while and try to starve me out. I’ll miss the vegetables and bread, and I’ll have to go fishing again, but in time they’ll forget and come looking for help once more.

Six men waited outside the Forest Edge Wayhouse: three priests and three locals. The blue trim of the priests’ circs looked black in the fading light. The other men wore the simple clothes of farmers and carried packs.

Adem flexed his shoulders to shift the weight of his gear into a more comfortable position, then stepped into the street. From behind him came the reassuring footsteps of his fellow vorn-hunters. One, then all of the priests and their companions turned to regard the newcomers. He smiled as they eyed his clothing with obvious dismay. Hunters travelled light, especially in the forest. They might carry one spare set of clothes to change into after a day’s butchering, but those, too, quickly became stained with blood and dirt.

In the trade, clean clothes were a sign of a failed hunter. Adem wryly noted the spotless white circs of his employers. He supposed dirty garments would not be an encouraging sign on a priest. It must be a chore keeping them clean.

“I’m Adem Tailer,” he said. “This is my team.” He didn’t bother introducing the men. The priests would not remember a list of names.

“I am Priest Hakan,” the taller of the priests replied. “This is Priest Barew and Priest Poer.” He gestured to a gray-haired priest, then a slightly portly one, and then waved at the three locals. “These are our porters.”

Adem made the quick one-handed gesture of the circle to the priests and nodded politely at the porters. The locals looked apprehensive. As well they might.

“Thank you for volunteering your services,” Hakan added.

Adem gave a short bark of laughter. “Volunteer? We’re no volunteers, priest. We want the skins. From what I hear these vorns are big bastards and all black. Pelts like that will fetch a high price.”

Priest Hakan’s mouth twitched up at one corner but his two companions grimaced in distaste. “I’m sure they will,” he replied. “Now, how do you recommend we proceed?”

“We look for tracks where the last attack happened.”

Hakan nodded. “We’ll take you there.”

Faces appeared in windows as they passed through the village. Voices called out, wishing them luck. A woman hurried out of a door with a tray of small cups, each brimming with tipli, the local liquor. The hunters downed theirs cheerfully, while the porters gulped their share with telling haste. The priests took one sip before returning their cups to the tray unfinished.

They moved on out of the village. The dark shapes of trees pressed in on either side. The portly priest lifted a hand and everyone was dazzled as a bright light appeared.

“No light,” Adem said. “You’ll frighten them off if they’re close. The moon will rise soon. It should give us enough light once our eyes are used to it.”

The priest glanced at Hakan, who nodded. The light blinked out, leaving them to stumble forward in darkness until their eyes adjusted. Time passed slowly, measured by the tread of their boots. Just as the moon struggled up from the tops of the trees Priest Hakan stopped.

“That smell... this must be the place,” he said.

Adem looked at the portly priest. “Can you make a soft light?”

The priest nodded. He extended a hand again and a tiny spark of light appeared. Adem saw the remains of a platten ahead. They walked over to the vehicle, which was listing to one side on a broken wheel. The stench grew stronger as they approached and its source proved to be the corpse of an arem, gouged out where the vorns had eaten part of it.

The ground was covered in tracks - huge pawprints that set Adem’s heart pounding with excitement. He tried to estimate the number of them. Ten? Fifteen? The prints congregated in a mass of churned ground. Fresher human ones crossed them. Adem noticed something glittering. He reached down and plucked a short length of gold chain from the trampled soil. It was covered in a crusty substance he suspected was dried blood.

“That’s where they found the merchant,” Hakan murmured. “Or what was left of him.”

Adem pocketed the links. “All right, men. Scout about and find tracks leading away.”

It did not take long. Soon Adem was leading the priests into the forest, following a trail that wouldn’t have been easier to follow had the giant footprints glowed in the dark. They were a day behind the hunt, he estimated. He hoped the priests were prepared for a long trek. He did not call for a stop until the moon was directly overhead, then gave them only a few minutes to rest.

After a few more hours they reached a small clearing. Vorn tracks filled the space - and human. A single set of bootprints marked the forest floor. They had found no human footprints since the site of the attack. Adem’s men scurried through the forest.

“Looks like they stopped last night,” he murmured.

“They went this way,” one called softly.

“Any human footprints leading away?” Adem asked.

There was a long pause.

“No.”

“Witnesses say he rides one of them,” Hakan said.

Adem moved to Hakan’s side. “Wouldn’t have thought it possible. But I guess they’re big enough. I—”

“Sentry!” one of his men hissed.

The hunters froze. Adem cast about, searching the forest and listening.

“Sentry?” Hakan whispered.

“Sometimes the hunt leaves a single member behind to wait and see if they’re being followed.”

The priest stared at Adem. “They’re that smart?”

“You’d better believe it.” A faint sound drew Adem’s attention to the right and he heard his men suck in a breath as they, too, saw a shadow slink away. A huge shadow. Adem cursed.

“What’s wrong?” Hakan asked.

“The hunt knows we’re coming, I doubt we’ll catch them now.”

“That depends,” the priest murmured.

“Oh?” Adem couldn’t hide the skepticism in his voice. What did priests know of vorns?

“On whether the rider slows them. Or wants us to find him.”

He has a point. Adem grunted in reluctant agreement.

“Let us continue,” Hakan said.

For the next few hours they crept through the forest, following a trail now half a day fresher. The darkness thickened as the night reached that time, just before morning, when all was still and cold. The priests yawned. The scouts trudged after them, now too tired to fear. Adem’s fellow hunters walked with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. He had to agree. Their chances of catching the hunt were slim now.

Then a human scream tore through the silence. Adem heard several curses and unslung his bow. The sound had been close. Perhaps one of the trackers...

The forest filled with leaping shadows and snapping teeth.

“Light!” Adem shouted. “Priest! Light!”

More screams came. Screams of terror and pain. Adem heard a soft patter and turned to see a shadow leap toward him. There was no time to nock an arrow. He grabbed his knife, ducked and rolled, and thrust upward. Something caught it, ripping the blade from his grip. There was an inhuman garbled cry of pain and the sound of something landing heavily nearby.

Then light finally flooded the forest. Adem found himself staring into the yellow eyes of the largest vorn he had ever seen. In the corner of his vision he could see white figures. Adem dared not take his eyes from those of the beast to look. The vorn whined as it got to its feet. Blood dripped from the matted hair of its belly. Adem weighed his chances. It was close, but in pain and perhaps weakened from blood loss. There was no use running away. Even wounded these creatures could outrun a man in ten strides. He groped for an arrow.

The vorn slunk toward him, pink tongue lolling from its mouth. A mouth large enough to encompass a man’s head, Adem couldn’t help thinking. He got the arrow nocked, aimed between the eyes of the beast and released.

The arrow bounced off the vorn’s skull.

Adem stared at it in disbelief. The animal had leapt backward in surprise.

“Where are you, sorcerer?” Hakan shouted. “Show yourself!”

Sorcerer? Adem thought. Magic? The vorns are protected with magic? That is not fair!

“You do not order me, priest,” a voice replied in a strange accent.

The vorn whined again and dropped to the ground, rolling onto its side. Adem could see his blade lodged in its belly. He decided he could risk looking away.

Priests, hunters and porters stood in a group under a hovering spark of light. Vorns ringed them all.

The elderly priest was crouching at the side of another. Hakan stood staring into the forest. As Adem watched a stranger stepped into the light. Foreign, Adem thought. No race I’ve ever seen. Long pale hair spilled over a black many-layered garment. On his chest lay a large silver pendant in the shape of a five-pointed star.

“You have killed innocent people, sorcerer,” Hakan accused. “Give yourself up and face the gods’ justice.”

The sorcerer laughed. “I don’t answer to your gods.”

“You will,” Hakan said. Sparks of light flashed from the priest toward the foreigner. Just before they reached their target they skittered aside and struck the trees, tearing bark from the trunks. Adem backed away. It was never wise to remain close to a magical battle. The injured vorn growled, reminding him that other vorns were about. He stopped, uncertain as to whether he should take his chances with a hunt of overgrown vorns or remain near the magical contest.

“Your magic is small, priest,” the foreigner said.

The air rippled and Hakan staggered backward and threw up his hands. Adem could see a faint shimmer in the air forming an arc that surrounded the priest and his men.

Hakan didn’t return the attack. It looked as if all his effort was going into protecting himself and the men around him.

One of the trackers standing behind the priests turned and bolted. He took only two steps before he screamed and fell to the ground. Adem stared in horror at the man’s legs. They were twisted in odd directions and blood was quickly soaking through his trousers.

Adem felt his mouth go dry. If this is what the sorcerer does to those outside the barrier, perhaps I had better stay still and hope he doesn’t notice me. He slowly crouched beside a bush, where he could still see the battle. The arc around the priests and hunters had spread to form a sphere encompassing all. The foreign sorcerer chuckled quietly to himself, a sound that sent a shiver down Adem’s spine.

“Surrender, priest. You will not win.” He extended a hand and curled his fingers as if clutching something before him.

“Never,” Hakan gasped.

The sorcerer shook his hand. Adem went cold as the sphere jerked about. The men within stumbled and fell to their knees. Hakan clutched his head and gave a wordless cry. The elderly priest jumped to his feet and grabbed Hakan’s shoulder. Adem saw Hakan’s face relax a little and heard the other priest gasp. At the same time the sphere flickered.

Hakan collapsed. Looking closely, Adem felt his heart freeze as he saw the elderly priest’s lips moving. He caught snatches of a prayer and felt the despair in the words.

The priest believed they were going to die.

I have to get out of here.

Rising, Adem took a few steps away from the battle.

“That is your choice,” the sorcerer said.

Adem glanced back in time to see the sorcerer’s extended hand flex then close into a fist. There was a cry from the elderly priest. A cry that was cut off. The light went out and a deathly silence followed.

Slowly Adem’s eyes adjusted to the faint glimmer of early dawn. He found himself staring at the silent place where priests and hunters had stood, and could not persuade his eyes to move away from the bloody mound of crushed limbs, weapons, packs and priests’ circs, not even as his stomach heaved its contents onto the ground.

There was an animal whine nearby. A voice spoke strange words in soothing tones. Adem watched as vorns gathered around the sorcerer to be petted. Then the injured vorn whined again and the sorcerer looked up, straight into Adem’s eyes.

Though he knew there was no hope, Adem ran.

As Auraya entered Juran’s room she met the eyes of each of the other White. Juran had woken her a short while before so that she could link with the priests fighting the sorcerer. She had sensed the minds of the other White, and felt their shock and dismay.

“I’m sorry, Auraya,” Juran said. “If I had known the confrontation was going to end so badly I would not have woken you.”

She shook her head. “Don’t apologize, Juran. You could not have known how it would turn out, and it’s no revelation to me that terrible things happen in this world - though I do appreciate your concern.”

He ushered her to a chair. “Such a waste,” he murmured. He began to pace the room. “I should not have sent them. I should have investigated myself.”

“You could not have known this sorcerer was so powerful,” Dyara repeated. “Stop blaming yourself and sit down.”

Auraya glanced at Dyara, amused despite the seriousness of the moment to hear her take such a stern tone with Juran. The White leader did not appear to mind. He dropped into his chair and sighed heavily.

“Who is this sorcerer?” Rian asked.

“A Pentadrian,” Mairae replied. “There is a sketch of the star pendant in the report. They’re worn by Servants of the Gods.”

“A powerful sorcerer priest,” Dyara added.

Juran nodded slowly. “You’re right. So why is he here?”

“Not to propose trade or forge an alliance, it seems,” Mairae said.

“No,” Dyara agreed. “We have to consider whether he was sent here or is acting on his own. Either way, he must be dealt with, and we cannot risk sending a high priest or priestess to confront him.”

Rian nodded. “One of us must go.”

“Yes.” Juran glanced at each of the White in turn. “Whoever does will be absent some weeks. Auraya hasn’t completed her training yet. Mairae is occupied with the Somreyans. Dyara is training Auraya. I would go myself, but...” He turned to Rian. “You have not dealt with a sorcerer before. Do you have the time?”

Rian smiled grimly. “Of course not, but I will make time. The world needs to be rid of this Pentadrian and his vorns.”

Juran nodded. “Then take one of the Bearers and go.”

Rian straightened. A gleam had entered his gaze. As the young man rose and stalked from the room, Auraya felt a moment’s wry sympathy for the Pentadrian sorcerer. From what she had seen so far, all but the more severe rumors of Rian’s ruthless fanaticism were true.

6

“What do you think of Dreamweavers, Danjin Spear?”

Danjin looked up in surprise. He was sitting opposite Auraya at the large table in her reception room, helping her examine the terms of the proposed alliance with Somrey.

Auraya met his eyes steadily. He thought back to the day news of her mother’s death had arrived. At her bidding he had sought the location of the man who had delivered the message to the Temple. To his surprise, the man was a Dreamweaver.

Later he had been even more surprised to learn that Auraya had visited the man in disguise. He wasn’t sure if he was more disturbed by the idea of a White paying a social visit to a Dreamweaver, or that Auraya had tried to do so secretly - which indicated she knew she was doing something that might be considered ill-advised or inappropriate.

Of course, she was reading all this from his mind right now. She must also know that he had looked into her past and learned of her childhood friendship with Dreamweaver Leiard and that she had been known in the priesthood for her sympathetic view of the heathens. She would have seen that her second meeting with the Dreamweaver had been noted, and that he had heard people, inside and outside the Temple, gossiping about it. She also had to know that he didn’t respect or like Dreamweavers.

In the weeks since he had found Leiard she had not discussed Dreamweavers with him at all. Now that she was working on the Somreyan problem they could not avoid the subject any longer. He had to be honest. There was no point pretending he agreed with her.

“I don’t think much of them, I’m afraid,” he admitted. “They are at best pitiful, and at worst untrustworthy.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Why pitiful?”

“I guess because they are so few and so despised. And misguided. They do not serve the gods, so their souls die when their body does.”

“Why untrustworthy?”

“Their Gifts - some of them - enable them to mess about with people’s minds.” He hesitated as he realized he was repeating what his father had always said. Were these truly his own opinions? “They can torment their enemies with nightmares, for example.”

She smiled faintly. “Have you ever heard of a Dreamweaver doing so?”

He hesitated again. “No,” he admitted. “But then there are so few now. I don’t think they’d dare.”

Auraya’s smile widened. “Have you ever heard of a Dreamweaver doing something to earn them the label ‘untrustworthy’?”

He nodded. “Some years ago a Dreamweaver poisoned a patient.”

The smile vanished and she looked away. “Yes, I studied that case.”

He looked at her in surprise. “As part of your training?”

“No.” She shook her head. “I’ve always taken an interest in crimes that involve Dreamweavers.”

“What... what did you make of it?”

She grimaced. “That the Dreamweaver was guilty. She confessed to it, but I wanted to be sure she wasn’t blackmailed or beaten into doing so. I looked to the reaction of other Dreamweavers for clues. They turned from her. I found that to be the most convincing evidence of her guilt.”

Danjin was intrigued. “They might have turned from her to protect themselves.”

“No. I think Dreamweavers know when another is guilty of a crime. When one is falsely accused - and some of the trials have been disgustingly transparent - they defend them in their own way. The accused is calm, even when they know they are to be executed. But when the accused is guilty, not a word is spoken in their defense. This woman was frantic,” Auraya shook her head slowly, “and angry. She raged against her own people.”

“I heard that she asked for garpa so she could avoid sleeping.” Danjin shuddered. “If they are willing to torment one of their own, what might they do to an enemy?”

“Why do you assume they were tormenting her? She might have wanted to avoid her own dreams.”

“She was a Dreamweaver. Surely she had control of her own dreams.”

“Again, you can only assume so.” Auraya smiled. “You judge them untrustworthy because they have the ability to harm others. Just because they can, doesn’t mean they will. I could snuff out your life with a thought, but you trust me not to.”

He stared at her, disturbed at her casual mention of her gods-given powers. She held his gaze. He looked down at the table. “I know you wouldn’t.”

“So perhaps you should reserve your judgment of each Dreamweaver until you know him or her personally.”

He nodded. “You’re right, of course. But I cannot trust them any more than I would trust a stranger.”

She chuckled. “Nor I. Or even those I think I know, as sometimes people I thought I knew well have demonstrated a meanness or callousness that I hadn’t realized they were capable of.” She looked down at the scroll spread before her. “I value your views even if I don’t agree with them, Danjin. I am finding myself alone in my perspective on this matter. I am no Dreamweaver. My understanding of them is proving to be limited. Neither am I a typical Circlian, who distrusts Dreamweavers at best and actively persecutes them at worst. I need to understand all perspectives if I am to suggest ways for Mairae to persuade the Somreyans into forming an alliance with us.”

Danjin noted the crease that had formed between her brows as she spoke. When he had been offered this position, Dyara had assured him that Auraya would not be given any difficult tasks during her first few years as a White. It seemed this task had found her.

Her knowledge of Dreamweavers made her the best White for it, however. Maybe this was why the White were allowing it to become common knowledge that the newest White was tolerant of, if not supportive of, heathens. What effect would that have in the long term? While the law dictated that seeking a Dreamweaver’s services was a crime, so many people ignored it that few were ever punished. Would Auraya’s tolerance of Dreamweavers encourage more people to defy the law?

Auraya said nothing. Her attention had returned to the alliance.

“Which terms did the Somreyans initially protest against?”

Danjin had anticipated this question. Bringing a wax tablet closer, he recited a long list of changes to the terms of the alliance. The last third were entirely to do with Dreamweaver matters.

“These aren’t new terms, are they? They’ve always been in the alliance.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t the Somreyans protest about them in the beginning?”

Danjin shrugged. “As larger matters are settled, smaller ones become more noticeable. Or so they say.”

“And they have been noticing them one at a time?” Her voice was heavy with skepticism.

He chuckled. “Every time one matter is resolved, they protest against another.”

“Are they delaying, then? Is there any reason you can see for the Council of Elders to put off signing? Or is it only the Dreamweavers who want to delay or stop the alliance?”

“I don’t know. Mairae feels certain that most of the council want the alliance.”

Auraya drummed her fingers on the table. “So either they are unhappy with the small matters and are presenting them one by one in order to avoid any being tackled with less seriousness in the shadow of others, or they are simply messing us about. Patience will overcome the first possibility. To overcome the other...”

“Nothing will overcome the other. Nothing but direct interference in Somreyan politics.”

“I don’t think we have to go that far. We simply have to reduce the power of the Dreamweaver elder.”

Danjin stared at her in surprise. This was not something he’d expect from a Dreamweaver sympathizer.

“How?”

“By giving some of that power to another Dreamweaver.”

“The council can only contain one representative of each religion. How can you change that without influencing Somreyan politics?”

“I don’t mean to put two Dreamweavers in the council, Danjin. This would be a separate position.”

“Chosen by whom?”

“By the White.”

“The Somreyans wouldn’t accept it!”

“They’d have no choice. It would have nothing to do with them.”

Danjin narrowed his eyes. “All right. You have me mystified. Just tell me.”

She chuckled. “Clearly the White need an adviser on Dreamweaver affairs.”

“And this adviser would be a Dreamweaver?”

“Of course. The Somreyan Dreamweavers would never listen to a Circlian elected to the position.”

Danjin nodded slowly as he considered the advantages of this arrangement “I see. First, the Dreamweavers will be mollified. By hiring one of them as an adviser, the White acknowledge that Dreamweavers have some value. The adviser tackles face-to-face discussion over the terms of the alliance so that, faced with one of their own, the Dreamweaver elder is forced to negotiate sensibly rather than reactively.”

“And our adviser could make suggestions on how the terms of the alliance might be altered to reduce the number of protests, and therefore speed the process,” Auraya added.

What are the disadvantages, then? Danjin asked himself. What are the weaknesses in this plan?

“You will have to take care that this adviser’s goals are not contrary to your own,” he warned. “He or she might suggest changes to the alliance that benefit their people and prove to have ill consequences for us.”

“He or she would have to be as unaware of those consequences as I,” she replied, tapping her forehead. “There are only four people in the world who can lie to me.”

Danjin felt a thrill at this piece of information. So the White could not read each other’s mind. He had always suspected it was so.

“Of course, it may be that no Dreamweaver will agree to work with us,” he warned.

She smiled.

“Do you have anyone in mind?” Even as he asked, he knew the answer.

“Of course. Naturally, I’d want to work with someone I feel I can trust. Who better, then, than the Dreamweaver I know personally?”

As the platten trundled away, Auraya took in her surroundings. She and Dyara were in a wide, flat space between rows of cultivated trees. Long grass swayed in the breeze. In the distance a priest and priestess cantered around a field on a large white reyer. Both looked familiar.

“Is that... ?”

“Juran and Mairae,” Dyara answered. “We call the last day of the month Training Day because it’s the day we work with the Bearers. Once you have established a link with one, you need to maintain it.”

“Is that what I’ll be doing today?”

Dyara shook her head. “No. You will have to learn to ride eventually, but it is not a high priority. It is more important to teach you how to use your new Gifts.”

The two reyer in the distance wheeled in a complicated-looking maneuver, their legs moving in unison. Auraya could not imagine herself managing to remain on a reyer’s back while it twisted about like that. She hoped her relief at the news her feet would remain on the ground wasn’t too obvious.

“The shield I taught you to make last time will hold off most types of attacks,” Dyara said, her voice taking on a now-familiar lecturing tone. “It will deflect projectiles, flame and force, but it won’t stop lightning. Fortunately, lightning is naturally attracted to the ground. It will take the easiest route - through you. To prevent that you have to give it an alternative route, and you have to do it quickly.”

Dyara held out a hand. A tortured ribbon of light flashed from her fingers to the ground and a deafening crack echoed across the field. A burn marked the grass. The air sizzled.

“When do I get to do that?” Auraya breathed.

“Only when you’ve learned to defend against it,” Dyara replied. “I will begin with small strikes, aiming at the same place. You must try to alter its course.”

At first Auraya felt as if she had been ordered to catch sunlight in her hand. The lightning strikes happened too quickly for her to sense anything about them. She noticed the wriggly line of light was never the same. It must have a reason to follow a different path. Something about the air.

:Dyara? Auraya? a voice said in Auraya’s mind.

Dyara’s head snapped up. She had obviously heard it too.

:Juran? she replied. Auraya glanced toward the field, but the two riders were no longer there.

:Rian has found the Pentadrian. Focus on his mind through mine.

Dyara looked at Auraya, then nodded. Closing her eyes, Auraya sought Juran’s mind. As she linked with him she sensed Mairae and Dyara, but Rian’s thoughts demanded attention. From him came sounds and images. A forest. A half-ruined stone house. A man in black clothing standing in the doorway. She drew in a breath in wonder as she discovered she could see what Rian was viewing as clearly as if she were standing in his place. She could also sense him drawing magic in order to feed the shield of protection around him.

The Pentadrian was watching Rian approaching. Vorns were all around him. He reached out and stroked the head of one sitting beside him, murmuring in his strange language.

Rian stopped and dismounted. He sent an instruction to the mind of his Bearer. It galloped away.

The sorcerer crossed his arms. “You come to catch me, priest?”

“No,” Rian said. “I have come to kill you.”

The sorcerer smiled. “That not polite.”

“It is what you deserve, murderer.”

“Murderer? Me? You speak of priests and men, yes? I only defend myself. They attack first.”

“Did the farmers and merchants you killed attack you first?” Rian asked.

:I can’t read his mind, Rian said. His thoughts are shielded.

:Then he could be dangerous, Juran said.

:As powerful as one of the immortals of the past Age. This will be an interesting fight, Rian replied.

“I not attack farmers and merchants,” the sorcerer said. He scratched the head of a vorn. “My friends hungry. They not given respect or food. You people not polite or respect me and my friends from day I here. Now you say you kill me.” He shook his head. “You people not friendly.”

“Not to murderers,” Rian said. “Perhaps in your land savagery is no crime, but in ours it is punishable by death.”

“You think you can punish me?”

“With the gods’ blessing and power.” Auraya felt the surge of adoration and determination that Rian felt. He is utterly dedicated to the gods, she found herself thinking. In comparison the rest of us are merely loyal. Yet the gods must find that acceptable, or all White would be like Rian.

The sorcerer laughed. “The gods would never bless you, heathen.”

“Not your false gods,” Rian replied. “The Circle. True, living gods.” He drew magic and channelled it out, shaping it into a streak of white heat. The air before the sorcerer suddenly became a wall of violent ripples. A wave of warm air washed back over Rian. The sphere of protection Rian had set about himself buckled inward. He strengthened it instinctively, warding off the force buffeting it. Auraya heard the snap of wood as the trees around Rian bore the brunt of reflected power.

Rian attacked again, this time shaping magic into darts that assailed the sorcerer from all sides. The Pentadrian’s defense held, and he returned with strikes of lightning that Rian guided to the ground.

So that’s how it’s done, Auraya thought.

The ground beneath Rian bucked and jumped. He sent magic down, steadying it. At the same time he drew air from around the sorcerer, trapping him in a vacuum. The sorcerer wrested air back.

:He’s testing me, Rian observed.

:I agree, Juran replied.

Rian felt a force envelop him, pressing upon the protection around him. He fought it, but it grew ever stronger. Auraya was not surprised to see that the sorcerer was standing with one hand extended and curved into a claw, just as he had during the fight with the priests.

:Now comes the test of strength, Rian said. He resisted the crushing, matching force with force. At the same time he watched for other forms of attack. Time slid by. The sorcerer’s attack grew steadily more powerful. Rian slowly increased the strength of his defense.

Abruptly, the crushing force eased.

Though Rian reacted quickly, a great wave of force rushed out from him. Trees shattered. The ruined house flew apart. Dust and rocks filled the air, obscuring all. Rian threw out a gentler magic, pushing the dust to the ground.

The sorcerer was gone. Casting about, Rian saw a huge black beast loping away, carrying a man. He sent a bolt of lightning toward it, but the energy skittered around the fleeing sorcerer and sank into the ground.

“Gods strike him,” Rian hissed as the man and beast disappeared into the trees. He sent a mental call to his Bearer. The mount was not far away.

:Take care, Juran warned. Follow him, but be wary. He is powerful, and a surprise attack could be deadly.

Auraya felt a chill run down her spine. Deadly to Rian? But surely nothing could harm him.

:Not as powerful as I, Rian replied, his thoughts dark with anger and determination. There will be no opportunity for ambush. I will not sleep or rest until I know he is dead.

Then his thoughts faded from Auraya’s senses. She opened her eyes. Dyara met her gaze.

“That was enlightening,” the woman said dryly. “We have not encountered an enemy this powerful for a long time.” Her eyes narrowed. “You look puzzled.”

“I am,” Auraya replied. “Is Rian in any danger?”

“No.”

“Then why did Juran warn him to watch for a surprise attack? Surely he cannot be killed.”

Dyara crossed her arms. “Only if he makes a foolish mistake - and he won’t. I taught him well.”

“So we’re not invulnerable. Or immortal.”

Dyara smiled. “Not exactly. Most would say we’re close enough to it. We do have limitations. One is access to magic. Remember what I taught you: when we draw in magic we use up some of what is around us. If we use a lot it becomes harder to draw in as the magic around us thins and we have to reach farther from our position to get to it. Magic will flow back into the place we have weakened, but it happens slowly. To gain a fresh, strong source we must move to a new position.

“It is rare for us to use that much magic,” Dyara continued. “But the most likely situation to cause us to is battle with another sorcerer - an exceptionally powerful sorcerer. The depletion of an area may cause you to weaken at an inopportune moment.” She paused and Auraya nodded to show she understood.

“Your own ability to learn and use Gifts is your other limitation. The gods can only enhance our Gifts. Each of us is as strong as the gods can make us. That is why we are not equal in strength. Why Mairae is the weakest and Juran is the strongest.”

“Is it possible for a sorcerer to be stronger than us?”

“Yes, though sorcerers of such strength are rare indeed. This is the first one I’ve learned of in nearly a hundred years.” She smiled grimly. “You have joined us during interesting times, Auraya. Lack of training is another limitation, but one I’m sure you’ll overcome quickly considering the rate at which you’re learning. Don’t worry. We would never send you out to deal with a sorcerer of such strength until your training was complete.”

Auraya smiled. “I’m not worried. And I had wondered how we could be invulnerable when the gods aren’t.”

Dyara frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Many gods died in the War of the Gods. If gods can die, then so can we.”

“I suppose that is true.”

Hearing the beat of hooves on the ground, they both turned to see Juran and Mairae riding toward them. As the reyer came to a halt Auraya realized that neither wore reins. She remembered what Dyara had told her: that Bearers were directed by mental commands.

Juran looked down at Auraya.

“I have a question for you, Auraya. Mairae tells me you’ve finished looking over the Somreyan alliance proposal. Would you make any changes to the terms?”

“A few, though I suspect even more changes need to be made. As I was reading I found that I didn’t know as much about Dreamweavers as I thought. I know how they’d treat woundrot, but not how they fit into Somreyan society. I began to wish I had an expert to call upon, and a possible solution came to me. Perhaps what we need is an adviser on Dreamweaver matters.”

Juran turned to regard Mairae. “You tried this, did you not?”

Mairae nodded. “I could not find anyone with the appropriate knowledge.”

Auraya felt her heartbeat quicken a little, but did not pause. “Did you try a Dreamweaver?”

“No. I did not expect them to cooperate.”

Juran’s eyebrows had risen, but his expression was not disapproving. “You believe they might, Auraya?”

“Yes, if they felt our purpose was not contrary to their well-being. The alliance isn’t, as far as I can see.” She smiled crookedly and touched her forehead. “And we have our own safeguards against the possibility that their purpose is contrary to ours.”

“Which they will be quite aware of.” Juran reached forward and rubbed his Bearer between the ears, around the stub of one horn. “I would be surprised if any agreed to it, but I can see the advantages we will gain if one did.”

Mairae smiled. “The Somreyan Dreamweaver elder would not so easily defy one of her own.”

“No,” Juran agreed.

“We would be admitting they have power and influence,” Dyara warned.

Mairae shrugged. “No more power than they actually have. No more than we have already acknowledged in the terms of the alliance.”

“We will signal to our people that we approve of them,” Dyara persisted.

“Not approve. Tolerate. We can’t pretend they don’t have power in Somrey.”

Dyara opened her mouth, then closed it again and shook her head.

Juran looked at Auraya. “If you can find a Dreamweaver willing to do this, then I will send you and Mairae to Somrey together.”

“But Auraya has barely begun her training,” Dyara protested. “This is too much to expect of her so soon.”

“The only alternative I see is to abandon negotiations.” Juran looked at Auraya and shrugged. “If you fail, people will assume it was through inexperience rather than a fault in our strategy.”

“That’s hardly fair on Auraya,” Dyara pointed out.

Auraya shook her head. “I don’t mind.”

Juran looked thoughtful. “If Mairae were to behave as if she didn’t expect to gain any ground, but has taken you there to educate you in other systems of government... Let them underestimate you.” His attention returned to her. “Yes. Do it. See if you can find us an adviser.”

“Do you have anyone in mind?” Mairae asked.

Auraya paused. “Yes. The Dreamweaver I knew as a child. He is living in the city temporarily.”

Juran frowned. “An old friend. That could be unpleasant for you, if he proves troublesome.”

“I know. However, I’d rather work with someone I know well, than not.”

He nodded slowly. “Very well. But be careful, Auraya, that you do not compromise yourself for the sake of friendship. It is far too easy to do.” His tone was regretful.

“I will be careful,” she assured him.

Juran patted his Bearer’s neck and it pawed the ground. Auraya resisted the urge to back away. They were such big creatures.

“We must return to our training,” Juran said. As he and Mairae rode away, Auraya wondered what had happened to cause him to feel such obvious regret. Perhaps she would find out, one day.

There was so much she didn’t know about her fellow White. But there was plenty of time to learn about them. Maybe not all of eternity, but, as Dyara had said, close enough.

7

Five sat on benches within the communal room of the Bakers’ house. Another Dreamweaver, Olameer, had arrived that morning. She was a middle-aged Somreyan journeying south to gather herbs that would not grow in the colder climate of her homeland. Jayim had been quiet for most of the meal.

“Have you visited Somrey, Leiard?” Tanara asked.

Leiard frowned. “I am not sure. I have memories of it, but I do not recall where they fit into my past.”

Olameer looked at him closely. “They sound like link memories.”

“Probably,” Leiard agreed.

“But you are unsure,” Olameer stated. “Do you have other memories that you are not certain are yours?”

“Many,” he admitted.

“Forgive me, but what are link memories?” Tanara interrupted.

Olameer smiled. “Dreamweavers sometimes link minds in order to communicate concepts and memories to each other. It is quicker and easier to explain some things that way. We also occasionally use links as a part of our rituals and a way to get to know another person.” She looked at Leiard and her smile changed to a thoughtful frown. “We tend to accumulate memories that are not our own, but usually we can tell which are ours and which are not. If a memory is old, however, it is easier to forget that it was not ours. And in rare instances, where a Dreamweaver endures a traumatic event, his or her memories will mix with link memories.”

Leiard smiled. “I have not suffered such an event, Olameer.”

“None that you remember,” she replied softly.

He shrugged. “No.”

“Would you... would you like to perform a linking tonight? I could examine these link memories and try to find the identity behind them.”

Leiard nodded slowly. “Yes. It has been too long since I have performed the ritual.” He noticed Jayim staring at him and smiled. “And Jayim should join us. He has remained untrained since his teacher died six months ago.”

“Oh, don’t put yourselves out for me,” Jayim said hastily. “I’ll only... get in the way.”

Tanara stared at her son in surprise. “Jayim! You should take advantage of such a generous offer.”

Leiard looked at Olameer. Her expression was knowing.

“I can’t. I’m visiting a friend tonight,” Jayim told his mother.

Millo frowned at his son. “You did not mention this earlier. Are you planning to go alone? You know it’s dangerous.”

“I’ll be fine,” Jayim said. “It’s not far to Vin’s place.”

Tanara’s lips pressed together. “You can go in the morning.”

“But I promised,” Jayim protested. “He’s sick.”

Tanara’s eyebrows rose. “Again?”

“Yes. The breathing sickness. It gets worse in summer.”

“Then I had best go with you,” Leiard said. “I know many treatments for illnesses of the lungs.”

“Thank you, Leiard,” Tanara said. “That is kind of you.”

Jayim glanced from his mother to Leiard, then his shoulders slumped. Tanara stood and started gathering the dirty dishes. Olameer yawned delicately, then rose to help.

“Just as well,” she murmured. “I am probably too tired to be of any use to you, Leiard. I never sleep well on ships.”

He nodded. “Thank you for the offer. Perhaps another time?”

“I will be leaving in the early morning, but if you are here on my return we will perform the ritual then. In the meantime, be well.” She rose, then touched her heart, mouth and forehead. Leiard returned the gesture, and saw in the corner of his eye Jayim hastily following suit.

As Olameer left the room Leiard rose and looked expectantly at Jayim.

“What does your friend do for a living?”

The boy glanced up, then stood. “His father is a tailor, so he’s learning to be one too.”

“Will his family protest if I come to their house?”

Jayim hesitated, obviously considering this opportunity to be rid of Leiard, then shook his head.

“No. They won’t mind. My teacher helped them since Vin was a baby. That’s how I met him. I’ll just get my bag.”

Leiard waited as Jayim fetched a small bag from his room. Once outside, the boy set a rapid pace. The street was dark and quiet. The windows of the houses on either side were bright squares of light and Leiard could hear the sound of voices and movement inside.

“Why did you decide to become a Dreamweaver, Jayim?” Leiard asked quietly.

Jayim glanced at him, but it was too dark to read his expression.

“I don’t know. I liked Calem, my teacher. He made it sound so noble. I’d be helping people in ways the Circlians never can. And I hated the Circlians.”

“You no longer hate them, then?”

“I do, but...”

“But?”

“Not like I did then.”

“What has changed, do you think?”

Jayim sighed. “I don’t know.”

Sensing that the boy was thinking hard, Leiard remained silent. They turned into a narrower street.

“Maybe it isn’t all the Circlians I hate. Maybe it’s just a few of them.”

“Hate for a person is different than hate for a group of people. Usually it is harder to hate a group of people once you have realized you like an individual from that group.”

“Like Auraya?”

Leiard felt a strange thrill at the name. He had met with Auraya twice since her initial visit. They had talked of people they both knew in the village, and of events that had happened since she had left. She had told stories of her time as an initiate and then as a priestess. At one point she had admitted she was still surprised that the gods had chosen her. “I didn’t always agree with my fellow Circlians,” she had said. “I guess that’s your fault. If I had grown up in Jarime I’d probably have turned out as narrow-minded as everyone else.”

“Yes,” he said. “Auraya is different.”

“But it’s the other way around for me,” Jayim continued. “I can see now that I don’t hate all Circlians just because some of them are bad.”

And I don’t hate Circlians - just their gods, a voice said from the depths of Leiard’s mind. He drew in a quick breath at the surge of intense emotion that came with it. Why have I buried such hatred? he wondered. Why has it only surfaced now?

“I... I’m having doubts, Leiard.”

Leiard dragged his attention back to the boy at his side.

“About?”

Jayim sighed. “Being a Dreamweaver. I’m not sure I want to anymore.”

“I guessed as much.”

“What do you think I should do?”

Leiard smiled. “What do you want?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you want from your life, then?”

“I don’t know.”

“Of course you do. Do you want love? Children? Wealth? What about fame? Or power? Or both? Or do you want wisdom and knowledge more? What are you willing to work toward, Jayim? And what would you forsake in pursuit of it?”

“I don’t know,” Jayim gasped despairingly. He moved into an alley. It was narrow, forcing Leiard to walk behind the boy. The sour smell of rotting vegetables filled the dark, close space.

“Of course you don’t. You’re young. It takes time for anyone to...”

A feeling of threat swept over Leiard. He caught hold of Jayim’s shoulder.

“What?” the boy said tersely.

A wheezing exhalation echoed in the alley, then spluttered into a laugh. Two more voices joined in this merriment. As three shapes appeared in the gloom, Jayim cursed quietly.

“Where are you going this time of night, Dreamer?”

The voice was young and male. Leiard let these strangers’ emotions flow over him. He felt a mix of predatory intention and cruel anticipation.

“He’s got a friend,” a second voice warned.

“A friend?” the first boy scoffed, though his thoughts were immediately tempered by caution. “Dreamers don’t have friends. They have lookouts. Someone to watch in case a person happens upon them while they’re seducing other people’s wives and daughters. Well, that’s too bad for you, Dreamer. We got here first. You’re not going anywhere near Loiri.”

Seducing wives and daughters... An image flashed through Leiard’s mind. He faced two men, both angry, both holding weapons. In a window above, a woman appeared. Though her face was in shadow he knew she was beautiful. She shouted angrily, but not at him. Her curses were directed at the men below.

“I’m not here to see Loiri, Kinnen,” Jayim said between gritted teeth. “I’m here to see Vin.”

Leiard shook his head as the image faded. Another link memory? He could not remember ever being so intent on seduction. Something like that would surely stick in one’s memory. But then link memories also did that.

“Vin ought to know better,” a third voice said, “than to associate with Dreamweavers. What’s in the bag, Jayim?”

“Nothing.”

Jayim’s voice was steady, but Leiard could feel his fear increase abruptly. As the three bullies drew closer, Leiard channelled a little magic into his palm. Light blossomed between his fingers, setting his hand aglow. He stepped past Jayim and uncurled his hand.

The light filled the alley. To Leiard’s dismay, three Circlian priests stood before him.

No, he corrected himself. Initiates. They’re not wearing rings.

They stared at the light, blinking rapidly, then their eyes shifted to his face. Leiard regarded them impassively.

“I am unsure what your intention is by meeting us here in this manner. Jayim has informed you of the identity of our host and assured you that we are welcome. If that is not enough to satisfy you, then perhaps you should accompany us to our destination. Or...” he paused, then lowered his voice “... did you meet us here in order to acquire our services?”

The boys exchanged alarmed looks at the suggestion.

“If you have,” Leiard continued, “and the matter is not urgent, we can arrange to visit you tomorrow. Would you prefer we came to the Temple or your homes?”

At that, the three boys began to back away.

“No,” the first said stiffly. “That’s fine. We’re fine. No need to visit.”

After several steps they turned and swaggered off, making a show of indifference. Jayim let out a long, quiet sigh.

“Thanks.”

Leiard regarded the boy soberly. “Does this happen often?”

“Now and then. Not for a while, actually, but I think they’ve been busy with all the visitors who came to the Choosing Ceremony.”

“Probably,” Leiard agreed.

“You frightened them off, though,” Jayim said, grinning.

“I bluffed them. It will not work again. They will remember that the law is against anyone using our services. You need to learn to protect yourself.”

“I know, but...”

“Your doubts have prevented you seeking a new teacher.”

“Yes.” Jayim shrugged. “I have Dreamweavers like you, who come to stay with us. They all teach me things.”

“You know that is not enough.”

The boy bowed his head. “I think becoming a Dreamweaver was a mistake. I wanted to be someone.” He looked down the alley. “Like them, but not a priest. They would have made my life terrible. And... and Father kept pushing me to be a scribe, like him, but I wasn’t any good at it.” He sighed. “Becoming a Dreamweaver only made things worse with Kinnen’s lot. And my parents.” He gave a bitter laugh. “They were so eager to show they’d accept whatever choice I made that they turned our home into a safehouse.” He sighed. “So I can’t stop now.”

“Of course you can,” Leiard told him.

Jayim shook his head. “Kinnen’s lot will think I gave in. And my parents will be disappointed.”

“Which is not reason enough for you to be allowed to continue wearing the vest.”

Jayim frowned, then his eyes widened. “You’re... you’re here to kick me out!”

Leiard smiled and shook his head. “No. But I see much about you that concerns me. By our laws, if three Dreamweavers of each of the three ages agree that another must be cast out, it can and must be done.” He let his voice soften. “You are full of doubts, Jayim. That is reasonable in a boy of your age, in your situation. We will give you time to consider. But you cannot neglect your training while you consider, and you have taken no steps to acquire a teacher.”

Jayim stared at the light in Leiard’s hand. “I see,” he said quietly.

Leiard paused, then put aside the last shreds of his fading need for solitude. “If you decide to remain with us, Jayim, and you wish it, I will take up your training. I cannot promise that you will always remain in Jarime, so you must be prepared to leave your parents and accompany me into an uncertain future. But I will promise that I can make a Dreamweaver of you.”

The boy’s gaze shifted to Leiard’s, then he looked away, his thoughts in turmoil.

Leiard chuckled. “Think about it. Now we had best visit this sick friend of yours.”

Jayim nodded, and pointed along the alley. “We go in the back way. Follow me.”

Flying over the Open, Tryss felt a shiver of excitement. A great half-circle of lights had formed near the center where a sheet of rock known as the Flat provided space for many Siyee to stand together. The leaders of every tribe - the Speakers - stood above this, along the edge of a low natural wall of rock. The air was thick with Siyee arriving for the Gathering.

As his father began to descend, Tryss followed. His mother was a presence not far behind. They joined the Siyee circling down and, once their feet were on the ground, quickly moved out of the way to allow others room to land. As they joined their tribe, Tryss looked for Drilli’s. They stood close by. Drilli caught his eye and winked. He grinned in reply.

There were fifteen tribes of Siyee this year. One less than the last. The West Forest tribe had been butchered by landwalkers last summer. The few surviving members, unable to return to their territory, had joined other tribes. Drilli’s people, the Snake River tribe, had been driven from their village, but enough members had survived for them to still be considered a tribe. They had settled temporarily among other tribes until a new village site could be agreed upon.

Tryss looked up at the Speakers. A strangely garbed man was sitting among them. His clothing covered his arms, but this only drew attention to the absence of membranes between his arms and body. No Siyee could ever wear clothing like that.

His size more than made up for his lack of wings. Tryss could finally see why these landwalkers, despite their inability to fly, were such a danger to his people. The man was sitting on the rock ledge, yet his head was on an equal level to the Speakers. His arms were thick and his legs long. His body was a great barrel, made even bigger by the thick layers of clothing he wore.

He was enormous.

His head, however, was small. Or was it? Tryss did a quick comparison to one of the Speakers, then nodded to himself. The landwalker’s head was the same size as a Siyee’s. It just looked smaller because it was attached to such a large body.

The Speakers were moving now. They formed a line along the ledge and each gave a piercing whistle. The landwalker, Tryss noted, winced at the sound. The Siyee quietened.

Sirri, the Speaker of Tryss’s tribe, stepped up onto an outcrop known as Speakers’ Rock. She lifted her arms and spread her wings wide.

“People of the mountains. Tribes of the Siyee. We, the Speakers, have called you here tonight to hear the words of a visitor to our lands. He is, as you have heard and can see, a landwalker. A landwalker from a distant land called Hania, not a landwalker from among those who have killed our kin and taken our lands. We have spoken with him at length and are satisfied that this is true.”

Sirri paused, her eyes moving from face to face as she judged the mood of the Gathering.

“Landwalker Gremmer has climbed our mountains and crossed our rivers in order to reach us. He has come alone, on a journey that, for a landwalker, takes months. Why has he done this? He has brought an offer of alliance. An alliance with the White, the five humans that the gods have chosen to be their representatives in the mortal world.”

The Siyee stirred, exchanging glances. Talk of a group of landwalkers chosen by the gods had been repeated among the Siyee for years. Over the last century individual Siyee had been visited by the goddess Huan, who had spoken of the Gifted humans who had been selected. In time, the goddess had promised, these chosen ones would help the Siyee defend themselves from invaders.

In the last five years the landwalker incursions had increased dramatically, prompting many to hope that these promised protectors would arrive soon. A whole tribe was lost last summer, Tryss thought. They’d better hurry up, or there might not be any of us left to protect.

“Gremmer has spent many days with us now,” Sirri continued, “and has learned a little of our language. He wishes to speak to you tonight, to tell you of the Gods’ Chosen.”

Sirri turned and nodded to the landwalker. The man slowly rose and stepped up onto Speakers’ Rock. There was a murmuring among the watching Siyee, half wonder, half fear, as his full height was revealed.

The landwalker moved to the edge of the outcrop and smiled self-consciously at the crowd. He towered over all. Then, to Tryss’s surprise, Gremmer sat down, crossing his legs like a child.

He did that deliberately, Tryss mused. To look less imposing.

The man was holding a piece of paper in his large, stumpy fingers. He looked down at it and coughed quietly.

“People of the sky. Tribes of the Siyee. Let me tell you of the men and women the gods have chosen as their representatives.” His way of speaking was strange, and it was obvious that he was taking care with every word.

“The first was Juran, chosen a century ago. He is our leader and the one who gathered the first priests and priestesses together and called them Circlians. The second was Dyara, chosen to be the law-maker. Then Rian, the pious one, joined them; and Mairae, a maid of beauty and compassion, followed. The last was chosen but a month ago. I do not yet know his or her name as I left before the Choosing Ceremony.”

Gremmer looked up from his sheet of paper. “For a hundred years Hania has seen good work from the Gods’ Chosen. Law and justice have been fair. Those who meet with misfortune are helped. Those who fall ill are cared for. Children are taught to read, write and understand numbers. There has been no war.”

He straightened now, and his eyes moved across the faces of the Siyee before he looked at his notes again.

“Circlian priests and priestesses have served in many lands since the beginning, but Hania is the only land the White rule. Toren and Genria in the east have been our allies for over fifty years. Dunway, the warrior nation in the northwest, became an ally ten years ago. The White are negotiating with the Council of Elders in Somrey, and now we bring an offer of alliance to Si.”

He smiled and glanced up at the Siyee. “I have found you to be a noble, peaceful people. I know the White can help you with your troubles. Your land is being taken by Toren settlers. Laws need to be made and enforced to stop them. You need to look to your defense. If you cannot stop Toren settlers, how would you ever stop an army?

“The White protect their allies. In return, they ask that allies send fighters to help them if they are invaded. Since they are powerful and bring peace wherever they go, that help will probably not be needed.

“If Si and the White were allies, we could help each other in many ways. You know of Huan and a little of the other gods. Our priests and priestesses can teach you more. They can also increase your knowledge of magic, writing, numbers and healing. If you wished, the Temple would send a few priests to Si to live among you. Siyee might come to the Temple to become priests and priestesses themselves. There are many advantages to this. Messages can be sent telepathically by those priests and priestesses, so you would know what is happening in the world outside. Reports of attacks upon Siyee would reach the White quickly and be dealt with. People - landwalkers - would understand the Siyee better, and Siyee would understand landwalkers, too. Understanding brings respect and friendship. Friendship brings peace and prosperity.” He smiled and nodded several times. “Thank you for listening.”

The Siyee remained silent as Gremmer stood up and backed away from the edge of the outcrop. Tryss found that his heart was racing. We could learn so much from these landwalkers, he thought. Things we lost when we came to the mountains. Things the landwalkers have invented since. But Tryss read doubt in the faces of his people. Sirri stepped forward.

“We, the Speakers, will now talk with our tribes.”

The Speakers leapt off the outcrop and glided down to their tribes. As Sirri landed and joined Tryss’s tribe several people spoke at once. She raised her hands to stop them.

“One at a time,” she said. “Let us sit in a circle and speak our minds in turn.”

Tryss’s mother and father sat down and he settled behind them. Sirri nodded to the man sitting to her left, Tryss’s uncle, Till.

“It is a good offer,” he said. “We could use their protection. But we have nothing to offer in return. Gremmer speaks of fighters. We have none.”

Sirri turned her attention to the next Siyee in the circle. He repeated the same doubts. As the rest of the tribe spoke, Tryss felt frustration building. Then Tryss’s aunt spoke up.

“Does it matter?” Vissi said darkly. “They are the Gods’ Chosen. Who would dare to fight them? Gremmer is right. We would probably never need to fight. We should agree to this alliance.”

“But what if there is a small war? Between countries allied with the White. Or a rebellion,” Tryss’s father asked. “What if they ask for our help then? Do we send our young men and women to a certain death?”

Vissi looked pained. “Not certain. Possible. It is a risk, yes. A gamble. We are losing young men and women to these settlers all the time. And older men and women. And their children. We will keep losing them - and our land, too. That is more certain than the chances of us being called to war.”

There were reluctant nods from the gathered Siyee. Tryss bit his lip. We can fight, he thought at them. You keep thinking that you have to fight like landwalkers. We have to fight like Siyee - from the air. With my hunting harness. With Drilli’s blowpipe.

“Perhaps we will learn how to fight before then.”

This had come from Sreil. Tryss felt his heart lift. Had Sreil remembered Tryss’s harness?

“If landwalkers come here, they can teach us,” Sreil added. Tryss’s heart sank.

“But then we will have to admit we can’t fight,” Vissi warned.

“I think we must be honest with these White,” Sirri said. “After all, they are closer to the gods than any mortal, and the gods can see our minds. They will know if we are dishonest.”

The tribe was silent. Then Tryss’s father spoke.

“Then they will know that we cannot fight with sword or spear. They would not have asked this of us, if they felt we had no value to them in war.”

The meaning behind his father’s words struck Tryss like a physical blow. He felt a rush of cold, and shivered. Slowly he lifted his head to stare up at the stars.

Have you seen my mind? he asked. Have you seen my ideas? Is this what you mean to have happen - for me to give my people a way to fight?

He held his breath. What if the gods answer? he suddenly thought. That would be... wonderful and terrifying.

But no answer came. Tryss felt a moment’s disappointment. Had they heard, but were ignoring him? Did this mean he shouldn’t continue with his inventions? Or were they just not paying attention?

I could go mad thinking like this, he decided. They didn’t say “yes.” They didn’t say “no.” I’ll take that as meaning they weren’t listening, or don’t care, and do what I want.

All he wanted was to perfect his harness and see the Siyee using it to hunt. If his inventions led to the end of his people’s troubles... well, that would be even better. He’d be famous. Respected.

Tomorrow, he decided, I’m going to finish making my changes. After that I’ll test it. When I’m sure it’s working perfectly, I’ll present it to the Speakers.

8

Jarime was a city with many rivers. They carved the city into districts, some more affluent than others, and were utilized by watercraft carrying people and goods. Water was drawn from them for use, then channelled away to the sea through underground tunnels.

One half of the Temple boundary was formed by a river, and a tributary of it flowed through the holy ground. There were many pleasant leafy places along this tributary where a priest or priestess could find quiet and solitude for contemplation and prayer. The mouth of it was guarded to prevent outsiders disrupting the quiet, but if a visitor carried the right permission token he or she could ride the shallow Temple boats into the grounds.

Auraya’s favorite place on the river was a small white-stone pavilion. Stairs led down to the water on one side, where bollards allowed boats to be tied up. At the moment a veez was balancing on the rounded top of one bollard, investigating it closely. He looked up at the next post and Auraya caught her bream as he sprang toward it. Landing neatly, he leapt again, jumping from one bollard to the next.

“I do hope you can swim, Mischief,” she said. “One mistake and you’re going to fall in the river.”

Having reached the last bollard, he stood up on his hind legs and blinked at her.

“Owaya,” he said. In a blur of movement, he jumped down from the post, bounded to her seat and leapt into her lap.

“Snack?” he asked, gazing up into her eyes.

She laughed and scratched his cheeks. “No snacks.”

“Tweet?”

“No treats.”

“Food?”

“No food.”

“Titfit?”

“No titbits.”

He paused. “Niffle?”

“No nibbles.” She waited, but he stayed silent, gazing imploringly at her. “Later,” she told him.

The veez’s sense of time was limited. He understood “night” and “day,” and the phases of the moon, but had no understanding of smaller units of time. She could not tell him “in a few minutes” so she made do with “later,” which simply meant “not now.”

He was a strange and amusing companion. Whenever she returned to her rooms he bounded up to her, saying her name over and over. It was hard to resist such a welcome. She tried to find an hour each day to work on his training, as the Somreyans recommended, but she was lucky to manage more than a few minutes. Yet he learned quickly, so perhaps this was enough.

Finding a name for him had been a challenge. After she had heard that Mairae’s veez was named Stardust she decided she must find something less fanciful. Danjin had told her of a rich old lady who had named hers Virtue - apparently so she could always end a conversation with “but I do treasure my Virtue.” Now, when Auraya discussed her plans each morning with Danjin, he always smiled when she told him: “I must put aside some time for Mischief.”

This morning, however, her reason for bringing Mischief with her was not to continue his training but as a distraction if the conversation she was planning proved awkward. She was curious to see how the veez would react to her visitor, though he had a habit of pronouncing judgment of people loudly while in their presence, which she hadn’t yet managed to break.

Opening her basket, she took out an elaborate toy from the collection the Somreyans had provided. Setting it down, she began reading the instructions on its use. To her surprise it appeared to be a toy designed to teach the veez how to unpick locks with its mind. She wasn’t sure what was more amusing, that the creature was capable of it, or that the Somreyans thought it an appropriate trick to teach it.

She heard a splash and looked upriver. A punt drifted into sight, guided by two pole men. As she saw the passenger, she sighed with relief. She had not been sure if Leiard would accept her invitation. They hadn’t met in the Temple grounds before, but in quiet and private places in the city. Knowing how all things Circlian made him nervous and fearful, she had wondered if he would dare enter the Temple again.

But here he was.

Which was just as well. If he had been unable to bring himself to enter the Temple he would not be able to perform the role she wanted to offer him. She watched the punt draw closer. Mischief leapt out of her lap and scampered up a post of the pavilion into the roof. The pole men maneuvered the punt out of the current, and when the craft neared the stone steps one jumped out and tossed ropes around the bollards.

Leiard rose in one graceful movement. He stepped ashore and climbed the stairs. Watching him, Auraya felt a wistful admiration. There was something appealing about his perpetual air of dignity and calm, and the way he moved with unhurried ease.

Yet as she met his eyes she saw that this impression of calm was only external. His gaze wavered, leaving hers and returning only to slip away again. She hesitated, then looked closer. Fear and hope warred in his thoughts.

She was glad she had insisted that she meet him alone. Dyara had wanted to supervise, as always, but Auraya had guessed that the presence of another White would intimidate him. Especially one who radiated disapproval at the mere mention of Dreamweavers.

As she observed she saw that hope appeared to be winning the battle with fear. Leiard saw in Auraya a potential for change for his people that made dealing with the fear the Temple aroused in him worthwhile. She noted his trust only extended to her. He believed she would not harm Dreamweavers willingly. Nor would she be happy should the other White do so. She was the best opportunity for peace the Dreamweavers had encountered.

However, she saw that he did not entirely believe this. Circlians cared only for their gods and themselves. They despised and feared Dreamweavers. He wondered if he was a fool for trusting her. It was frustrating being unable to sense her emotions. She might have changed since becoming a White. This might all be a trap...

Auraya frowned. She had seen hints that he had an ability to sense emotions with his mind when they had met before, but this was the first time he had thought about it specifically, confirming that it was true. He had never mentioned this ability previously, not even when she was a child.

So he didn’t tell me everything back then, she thought. That isn’t surprising. The villagers would not have liked the idea he could sense something of their thoughts, even if only emotions. I wonder if other Dreamweavers have this ability, too.

All this flashed through her mind as he climbed into the pavilion. She smiled as he stopped a few steps below her, his eyes level with hers.

“Auraya,” he said. “Auraya the White. That is how I should address you, isn’t it?”

She shrugged. “Officially, yes. Privately you can call me whatever you feel comfortable with. Except dung-breath. I’d take exception to that.”

His eyebrows rose and his lips twitched into a smile. Seeing the pole men raise hands to cover their mirth, she turned and waved at them.

“Thank you. Could you return in an hour?”

They nodded, then made the two-handed gesture of the circle. Unwinding the ropes from the bollards, they stepped back onto the punt, picked up their poles and guided the craft downstream.

Auraya moved into the shade of the pavilion, conscious of Leiard as he followed her.

“How are you?” she asked.

“Well,” he replied. “And you?”

“The same. Better. I’m glad you changed your mind about leaving the city.”

He smiled. “As am I.”

“How are your hosts?”

“Well. Their son’s teacher died last winter and he found no replacement. I have taken on the task, for now.”

She felt a small pang of envy. Or was it simply longing for the past? Whatever the reason, she hoped the boy realized how lucky he was having Leiard for a teacher.

“I’d have thought it would be easier to find Dreamweaver teachers in the city than out of it,” she said. “Surely there are more here than you and this boy?”

Leiard shrugged. “Yes, but none were free to take on a student. We do not teach more than one at a time, and even those of us that like to teach need some time free from the constant demands of a student.”

Constant demands? Did this mean Leiard was going to be occupied for the next few years?

“So will this new student take up all of your time?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Not all.”

“Will he keep you in Jarime?”

“Not if I decide to leave. A student goes wherever his teacher does.”

“You wouldn’t happen to be thinking of visiting Somrey, would you?”

His eyebrows rose. “Why?”

She made her expression sober and her voice businesslike. “I have a proposal for you, Leiard. A serious proposal from a White to a Dreamweaver.”

She watched him react to the change in her manner. He leaned away from her and his expression became wary, but his mind was full of hope.

“Don’t feel you have to accept it,” she told him. “If what I propose doesn’t suit you, it might suit another Dreamweaver. If you don’t think any Dreamweaver would agree to what I’m proposing, please tell me. Either way, I’d appreciate your advice.”

He nodded.

“The White are seeking an alliance with Somrey,” she told him. As she explained the situation he said nothing, only listened and occasionally nodded to show that he understood. “Juran asked me to look over the terms of the alliance,” she continued, “and I realized I didn’t know as much about Dreamweavers as I thought. The questions I had...” She smiled. “I wished you were there to answer them for me. I realized that what we need is a Dreamweaver adviser. Someone to tell us which terms of the alliance are likely to cause offense. Someone to help us negotiate. Someone who might come to negotiate on behalf of Dreamweavers everywhere.” She paused and watched him closely. “Would you be our Dreamweaver adviser, Leiard? Will you come with me to Somrey?”

He regarded her silently. As he recovered from his surprise he began to consider her offer, debating with himself.

This is the opportunity Tanara thought might come. I can’t let it pass by. I will accept.

No! If you do this you will have to enter the White Tower. Juran will be there. The gods will be there!

I can’t let this opportunity pass out of fear.

You must. It is dangerous. Let her choose another. Find her another.

There is nobody better than myself for this position. I know her. She knows me.

She is a slave to the gods.

She is Auraya.

It was strange to be watching someone else’s internal struggle. Reason and hope were winning the fight against his fear, but she saw that the fear ran deep. What had caused this powerful terror of the gods? Had something happened to him to fill him with such dread? Or was this fear common among Dreamweavers? The stories she had heard of times when the Dreamweavers had been brutally persecuted were enough to make anyone’s skin prickle with horror.

He would have to fight this fear every time he entered the Temple. Suddenly she knew she could not ask this of him. She would have to find another Dreamweaver. She could not ask a friend to face this terror.

“It doesn’t have to be you,” she told him. “You may be too busy training this boy, anyway. Can you recommend another Dreamweaver?”

“I...” He paused and shook his head. “Once again, you have surprised me, Auraya,” he said quietly. “I thought, at first, that you only wanted advice on this alliance. Your offer is too great a thing to decide without spending some time in consideration.”

She nodded. “Of course. Think about it. Let me know in... well, I’m not sure how long I can give you. A week. Maybe more. I’ll let you—”

They both jumped as something dropped onto her shoulder.

“Tweet!” a shrill voice trilled in her ear.

“Mischief!” she gasped, holding a hand to her pounding heart. “That was not polite!”

“Tweeeeeet!” the veez demanded. He leapt off her shoulder onto Leiard’s. To Auraya’s relief, Leiard was smiling broadly.

“Come here,” he said, slipping his fingers around the veez’s body. Mischief gave a mew of protest as Leiard lifted him down and turned him onto his back. As the Dreamweaver began scratching his belly, the veez relaxed and closed his eyes. Soon he was lying, limp, in one of Leiard’s hands, his little fingers twitching.

“That’s pathetic,” she exclaimed.

He grinned and held the veez out to her. For a moment his gaze met hers over the creature. She felt a strange delight at the sparkle that had come into his eyes. She had rarely seen him look so... playful.

Suddenly she remembered something her mother had said, years before. That the women in the village were worried she fancied Leiard. That he was not as old as he appeared.

I can see why they were worried. I thought he was ancient, but then I was a child and only saw the white hair and long beard. He can’t be older than forty, and if he shaved and cut his hair I think he’d be quite good-looking, in a weathered sort of way.

The veez roused himself from his trance and lifted his head.

“More scratch?”

They both chuckled. Leiard set the veez down on the seat. It began to beg for food again so Auraya opened her basket and brought out refreshments for them all. Then she read aloud the instructions for the toy and they speculated on the wisdom of teaching such tricks to the creature.

Too soon, the punt reappeared. Leiard waited until it was tied to the bollards before standing. He paused and looked down at her.

“When do you sail for Somrey?”

She shrugged. “That depends on whether I find an adviser. If I don’t, Mairae will probably go alone in a month or so.”

“If you do?”

“Sooner.”

He nodded, then turned and walked toward the punt. After a few steps he paused and looked back, smiled faintly and inclined his head.

“It was a pleasure talking to you, Auraya the White. I will accept this position you have offered me. When would you like me to meet with you?”

She stared at him in surprise. “What happened to spending some time in consideration?”

His shoulders lifted. “I just did.”

She looked at him closely. There was no sign of the turmoil that had filled his mind earlier. It seemed reason had overcome his fear, now that he’d had a chance to think about it.

“I’ll tell Juran you have accepted. When I need you to come to the Tower, I’ll send you a message.”

He nodded once. Turning away, he stepped down to the punt and folded himself onto the low seat. She nodded to the pole men, who tossed ropes onto the craft and stepped aboard. Soon they were pushing their way upstream, Leiard sitting calmly between them.

Watching them, Auraya considered the doubts she’d had. She’d feared he wouldn’t meet with her, but he had. She’d worried that the meeting would be awkward, but she’d felt as at ease with him as she always had. At the same time, she had anxiously wondered what his answer would be.

Now she had only to fret about the possibility that this whole arrangement might ruin their friendship.

When the punt had moved out of sight, Auraya called to Mischief, picked up her basket and started back toward the White Tower.

Fiamo swallowed the last of the spicewater and leaned back against the mast. He was feeling particularly pleased with himself, and it wasn’t just the effect of the liquor. Summer always brought bigger catches, but today’s had been better than the season’s average. He’d made a good sum of money.

He smiled to himself. Most would go to the crew when they got back - and his wife. But he had a mind to put a little aside to buy presents for his sons when he next took a trip northeast.

For now there was nothing to do but lounge around the pier of Meran. The wind had dropped off, and probably wouldn’t return until late afternoon. In the meantime it was promising to be one of those warm, lazy afternoons good for nothing but drinking with his crew.

His men were neighbors and family. He had worked with them for years, first as crew working with his father, now as captain since his father had died of lungrot five years before.

Fiamo felt the boat tilt fractionally and heard the sound of boots on the gangplank. He looked up and grinned as Old Marro stepped onto the deck, carrying an earthenware jug and a large flatloaf of bread.

“Supplies,” the man said. “Like you ordered.”

“About time,” Fiamo said gruffly. “I thought you’d—”

“Captain!” This came from Harro, the youngest of Fiamo’s crew - a neighbor’s son. Fiamo looked up at the boy, hearing uncertainty and warning in the young voice. Harro was standing at the prow, his eyes fixed on the small village.

“Eh?”

“There’s a... there’s a hunt of vorns coming down the road. Maybe ten of them.”

“There’s what?”

Fiamo clambered to his feet, and for a moment his vision blurred from spicewater and the sudden movement. As his sight cleared he saw what the boy had noticed. Meran was the largest port a local could reach in a day’s sailing, but it was small as far as villages went. A road began at the end of the pier and climbed steadily up into rolling hills. Coming down that road was a surging, leaping mass of black creatures.

“Gods protect us,” he gasped, and made the one-handed symbol of the circle. “Untie us. Ring the bell.”

He had seen a vorn once in the light of a full moon. It had been big, most likely enlarged in his eyes by his fear. These vorns were larger than his imagination had ever painted them. They seemed unperturbed by the sunlight, too. They were running down the road toward him in one sinuous black mass.

“Hurry up,” he snapped.

The crew had risen to see this impossible sight. At his words, they sprang to the ropes. Fiamo moved to the rail and shouted a warning to the other fishermen tied there. He felt his own boat rock as his men pushed it away from the pier. Harro rang the warning bell urgently.

Sails were unfurled, but remained slack. Fiamo realized his heart was pounding. He watched as the few villagers still outdoors in the small town sighted the coming mass of animals and fled inside their houses. The gap between his boat and the pier widened slowly. The length of road between the vorns and the pier was shrinking much faster.

“Oars!” he shouted.

Men scrambled to obey. As Fiamo stared at the advancing creatures they reached level ground. A shape appeared in the middle of them and he heard himself gasp in disbelief.

“A man! A man riding one of them!” Harro yelled.

At the same time, Fiamo felt the boat’s progress speed as oars dipped into the water on either side. He looked around the pier. The other boats, smaller and lighter, had made better progress. His was now the closest to the pier. Though he doubted even vorns of that size could leap the gap, something told him he was not out of danger yet.

The hunt spilled through the village like a black flood. Fiamo could see the rider better now, a man dressed in clothes like no commoner would wear. The boat was more than twenty strides from the pier and gathering speed as fear lent strength to the crew. The vorns ignored the houses. They loped onto the pier, then milled at the edge. The rider looked around at the fleeing boats, and his gaze returned to Fiamo’s. He raised a hand.

Fiamo drew in a breath, ready to defy the stranger’s order to return. No voice came across the water. Instead, the boat shuddered to a halt.

Then it rushed backward.

The oars jammed in their rings. Crew struggled uselessly with them. The boy gave a high-pitched shriek. Others cried out names of the gods. Fiamo crouched, paralyzed by terror, as his boat raced back to the shore like a woman who had just laid eyes on her lost love.

We‘re going to smash into the pier, he thought.

At the last moment, the boat slowed. Even before it bumped into the pier, vorns were leaping aboard. There were splashes on either side as those men who could swim dived into the water. I should go too, he thought, but he remained where he was. Cursed fool I am. I can’t bring myself to give up my boat so easily.

A thought had burrowed its way into his mind. If this man could control these beasts, then he had only the man to fear. A man could be bargained with.

Still, Fiamo’s heart thundered in his chest as the vorns surged past him, their tongues lolling in mouths lined with sharp teeth. A few circled him, but they did not leap for his throat. He turned as yells of pain came from behind, and cried out in dismay as he saw vorns with their jaws fixed on the arms and legs of crew, but they were dragging the men away from the railing, not pulling them to the deck. With their added weight the boat floated low in the water.

Hearing the sound of wood sliding over wood, Fiamo turned back to see the gangplank move, unaided by any human, to the edge of the deck. As it settled on the pier the stranger rode aboard. He slid off the back of his mount and turned to stare at Fiamo.

“Captain,” the man said in a strange accent. “Tell crew take oars.”

Fiamo forced himself to look at his remaining crew, huddled together, ringed by vorns. Some, he heard, were murmuring prayers to the gods.

“You heard him, boys. Back to the oars.”

His voice shook, but held enough command to send the crew edging around the vorns to their former places.

“Pull up oars and keep them up,” the sorcerer ordered.

As the crew obeyed, the boat began to move away from the pier. The gangplank slid into the water like a bad omen. Fiamo stared in amazement as his boat picked up speed, cutting through the water despite the idle rowers and lack of wind.

Magic, he thought. He turned to find the stranger looking back to the shore. Following the man’s gaze, Fiamo saw a distant figure riding down the road to the village. A white figure on a galloping white mount.

Could it be... ?

The newcomer pulled up at the end of the pier and leapt to the ground. The boat shuddered to a stop, knocking Fiamo and many of the vorns off their feet. Fiamo felt his heart lift as the craft began to move backward. He gazed at the white figure.

It is! It’s one of the White. We’re saved!

The stranger muttered something and the force pulling them backward lost its hold. Released, the boat drifted to a halt.

“Row,” the stranger growled. “Now.”

The men hesitated, glancing doubtfully at Fiamo.

Vorns growled.

Men grabbed oars and began to row. Fiamo climbed to his feet again. Slowly the boat moved away from the coastline. When the distant figure was a mere speck of white, the black sorcerer chuckled quietly. He turned his back on the coast and swept his gaze over the boat and its crew. When he met Fiamo’s eyes he smiled in a way that turned the captain’s blood to ice.

“Captain, do you have more oars?”

Fiamo looked around. Harro and Old Marro stood empty-handed. The boy whimpered as two of the vorns approached him.

“No,” Fiamo admitted. “But we—”

At some unspoken signal, the animals leapt up and seized the pair’s throats. As blood gushed forth, Fiamo felt all strength drain from his legs and he sank to the deck. There were no screams, but he could hear arms and legs flailing.

“Keep rowing,” the sorcerer barked. Fiamo heard him moving along the deck toward him. The sounds of the animals feasting was all too audible in the windless silence.

Old Marro. My neighbor’s boy. They’re dead. Dead.

The sorcerer loomed over him.

“Why?” Fiamo heard himself croak.

The man looked away. “They hungry.”

Then a rustle of cloth drew Fiamo’s eyes upward. The sails were billowing with air. The afternoon wind had arrived.

Where it would take them today, he did not like to guess.

The tower was taller than any she had seen. It was so high that clouds tore themselves upon it as they passed...

No. Not again.

Emerahl wrenched herself out of the dream and opened her eyes. It had come to her nearly every night for the last month. Each time it was the same: the tower fell on her and she slowly suffocated under the rubble. If she let it run to its end she woke up feeling shaken and frightened, so she had started waking herself up as soon as it began.

After all, it’s going to wake me up anyway. I may as well do so on my terms.

Sighing, she rose and poured some water into a kettle and started a fire. The flames cast eerie shadows on the walls of the lighthouse - the most menacing being that of herself with hunched shoulders and mussed hair.

Old witch woman, she thought at the shadow. No wonder the villagers fear you.

She hadn’t seen any of them for several days. Occasionally she wondered if “little Rinnie” was still evading the clutches of her father and his cronies. Mostly she enjoyed the peace.

Then why these dreams? she asked herself. Taking a few dried leaves from ajar, she sprinkled them into a cup. The kettle whispered as the water grew hot. She linked her fingers together and considered the dream.

It was always the same. The details never varied. It was more like a memory dream than an ordinary dream, but she had no memories like it. She prided herself on her memory and that she had never suppressed any of her recollections of the past. Good or bad, she accepted them as part of who she was.

This dream had a purposeful feel to it. Something she had not felt for a long time. It reminded her of a... of a dream sent by a Dreamweaver!

This revelation sent a rare thrill of surprise through her. It was possible that a sorcerer had learned the skill, or even a priest, but something told her it was a Dreamweaver’s work.

But why send it? Had it been sent solely to her, or projected out to anyone sensitive enough to receive it? She drummed her fingers on her knees. The contents of a dream could be a clue to its origins. She considered the towers that she knew had existed in the past. None looked similar, but the dream tower could simply represent some other one. Or another building that had collapsed. She felt a chill run down her spine. Mirar had been killed when Juran, the leader of the Circlians, had destroyed Jarime’s Dreamweaver House and buried him in the rubble. It was said his body was crushed so badly he was barely recognizable.

Did this mean someone was dreaming about the death of Mirar? Someone with Dreamweaver skills so powerful that he or she was projecting the dream loud enough for Emerahl, in her remote location, to receive them. It made sense that a Dreamweaver would dream of the death of his or her leader, but why was he or she dreaming of it over and over. And why project it?

The kettle had begun to rattle softly now. Suddenly she was in no mood for a soporific. She wanted to think. Taking the kettle from the fire, she set it aside. As its bubbling subsided she heard the faint sound of voices outside.

She sighed. So they were coming at last. Time to show these upstart villagers why they should respect their elders.

Rising, she moved to the entrance of the lighthouse. Sure enough, a column of men was winding its way up the path to the lighthouse. She smiled sadly and shook her head.

Fools.

Then her amusement fled. At the head of the column was a man dressed entirely in white.

Priest! Turning away, she cursed loudly. No priest of the Circlians was strong enough to best her, but each was a conduit to their gods. And should the gods see her through this priest’s eyes...

She cursed again, then hurried back inside. Grabbing a blanket, she threw the most valuable of her belongings into it. With a scrap of thin rope she bound the blanket around these possessions. Hugging the bundle to her chest, she moved to the far side of the room.

“Sorceress!”

The voice was the village head’s. Emerahl froze, then forced herself to move. Drawing magic, she swept away the dirt covering a section of the floor. A large rectangle of stone appeared.

“Come out, sorceress, or we’ll come in and drag you out!”

Quickly! Drawing more magic, she sent dirt flying. A stairway appeared. She forced thick dirt out of the tunnel beyond. Stone appeared, then a cavity. Finally, with a gasp of relief, she cleared the mouth of a tunnel.

“All right. We’re coming in.”

“I will enter first, for your safety,” an unfamiliar voice said. There was a weak protest. “If she is a sorcerer, as you say, she may be more dangerous than you expect. I have dealt with her kind before.”

Emerahl fled into the tunnel. A few steps into the darkness, she turned and reached out with her mind. Dirt cascaded into the tunnel as she pulled it toward her. She could not tell if it was enough to conceal her exit.

Best get away, then. She willed a light into existence. It revealed a staircase descending into blackness. Clutching her bundle, she hurried down.

The stairs seemed endless, but at least the tunnel hadn’t deteriorated too much. In places the walls or roof had given way and she had to push through carefully. The air was growing damp when she heard a faint echo of sound from behind her.

She cursed again. That tunnel had been her secret for over a hundred years. She should have chased off the smugglers when they had first arrived, but she had rightly feared that news of a fearsome sorceress living in the lighthouse would attract unwanted attention. Now she was being driven out of her home by their descendants.

A fierce anger gripped her. It was tempting to ambush them in the dark. So long as the priest didn’t see her, she would be safe. She could kill him, and the rest, before they knew what had happened.

“Nothing stays the same. All you can be sure of in life is change.”

Mirar had said that. He had faced the final change: death. One mistake and she would join him. It was not worth the risk.

She ran down the rest of the stairs.

At the bottom was a stone door. No point in persuading the mechanism to work. It was probably rusted shut. Extending her hands, she channelled magic through them. Force struck the stone and it shattered with a deafening boom. She stepped out onto a narrow path to the left of the door.

It was not a path so much as a fold of rock in the cliff. She extinguished her light and continued by moonlight. Her old body was already aching from her flight down the passage. Now she felt unsteady as she hurried along the path, one hand touching the cliff side for balance.

She did not dare pause to look behind. When the pursuit reached the end of the tunnel, she would hear it. The cliff curved around, so she was probably out of sight already.

The path narrowed and she was forced to press herself flat against the rock and edge along it, balancing on her toes. Finally she felt a break in the rock face. She shuffled to it and hauled herself into the cave.

Cupping her hand, she created another light. The cave was shallow and most of the space was filled by a small boat. She examined it closely. It was made of a single piece of saltwood, a rare and expensive timber that was difficult to work but took hundreds of years to deteriorate. The name she had painted on the prow so long ago had flaked away.

“Hello again, Windchaser,” she murmured, running her hands over the fine grain. “I haven’t got any sails for you, I’m afraid. I’ll have to rig up a blanket for now.”

Taking hold of the prow, she dragged it toward the mouth of the cave. When most of it was projecting from the cliff, she gave it a firm shove with magic. It flew outward and down, guided by her mind, and splashed onto the surging sea.

Next she sent the bundle down into the boat, hoping that the more delicate of her possessions would survive the landing. A wave threatened to toss the boat against the cliff, but she held it in place with her will. She stepped to the edge and drew in a deep breath. The water was going to be very cold.

Then she heard voices to her right. Peering around the edge of the cave she saw moving light no more than fifty strides away.

Smothering a curse, she forced her old body to dive forward, as far out from the cliff as possible.

She fell.

Liquid ice suddenly surrounded her. Though she had braced herself for the cold, it took all her effort not to gasp out in shock and pain. Twisting around, she kicked toward the light of the moon.

As her head broke through the surface of the water she felt a wave force her toward the cliff. She reached for more magic and pushed against the solid presence behind it. Water gurgled around her as she surged forward. In a moment she had reached the boat.

It was perilously close to the land now, the sea having taken advantage of it while she was occupied with diving and swimming. Grabbing hold of the side, she hauled herself in. For a moment she lay in the bottom, gasping at the effort it had taken and cursing herself for allowing her body to grow so unfit.

Then she heard a shout. She sat up and looked back. Men clung to the rockface. The priest was nowhere in sight.

Smiling, she focused her mind on the cliff and pushed. The boat shot away, sending spray to either side. The cliff slowly receded, taking with it the villagers who had driven her from her home.

At that thought, she cursed savagely.

“A priest! Here! By the gods’ balls, Windchaser, isn’t there anywhere I can go that the Circlians haven’t seeded with their poisonous stink?”

There was no answer. She looked at the mast strapped securely down in the belly of the vessel and sighed.

“Well, what would you know, anyway? You’ve been trussed up like a grieving widower for years. I guess you and I had best get to the task of finding you a sail and me a new home.”

9

When Danjin entered Auraya’s reception room he saw a now-familiar tall man by the window. Leiard, he thought. On time, as always.

The Dreamweaver turned and nodded to Danjin politely. As Danjin returned the gesture he noted that condensation from the Dreamweaver’s breath marked the window. He felt the hairs on his neck begin to prickle. How could anyone stand so close to the glass, with that drop outside?

He had noticed that Leiard always moved to the closest window when entering a Tower room. Was he fascinated by the view? Danjin looked closely at the Dreamweaver, who was staring outside again. Staring quite intently, too. Almost as if he wanted to step through it and... and...

Escape, Danjin suddenly thought.

Which would be understandable. Here he was, standing in the one place where the gods’ influence was strongest in the world. The gods who had executed the founder of the Dreamweavers.

Yet this staring was the only sign Danjin had ever seen of Leiard’s discomfort. I’ve never seen him agitated, but then I’ve never seen him relaxed, either. He gives the impression that his thoughts and emotions are always under tight control.

The door to Auraya’s private rooms opened. She smiled as she saw her guests. Danjin made the formal gesture of the circle. Leiard, as always, remained motionless. Auraya had never shown any hint of being offended by this.

“Danjin Spear. Dreamweaver Leiard,” she said. “Are we packed and ready?”

Her face was aglow with excitement. She was like a child about to embark on her first journey away from home. Leiard indicated a worn bag beside a chair.

“I am ready,” he said solemnly.

Auraya looked at the bag. “That’s all?”

“All I ever travel with,” he replied.

“Our luggage is already on the ship,” Danjin informed Auraya. He thought of the three large trunks he had sent ahead. One had been full of scrolls, gifts and other items related to their journey’s purpose. Another had been full of Auraya’s belongings. The third had been the largest, filled with his own clothing and possessions. Leiard and Auraya had it easy, he decided. They both wore a uniform, not the endlessly varied finery he was expected to wear as a member of Hanian high society.

“Then we should proceed to Mairae’s quarters,” Auraya said. Stepping backward, she bent down to pick up something in the other room. “Come on, Mischief. Time to go.”

She was carrying a small cage. Inside it her veez hunched, all four legs braced against the floor.

“Cage bad,” he said sullenly.

“Quiet,” she told him.

To Danjin’s surprise, the creature obeyed. As Auraya moved toward the main door, Leiard picked up his bag and looked at Danjin expectantly. Danjin left and the Dreamweaver followed.

Auraya started up the stairs. As they climbed, the cage in the stairwell descended past them. Its sole occupant was a young man in spectacular formal dress. Danjin recognized the man as Haime, one of the many Genrian princes. The prince, seeing Auraya, made a half-bow and the formal gesture of the circle. Auraya smiled and nodded in acknowledgment.

They passed the door to Rian’s rooms. Danjin thought of the rumors and speculation that were rife in the city regarding Rian’s recent journey south. Reports about a dangerous sorcerer attacking villages in Toren had reached Jarime and all had assumed Rian had left to deal with the impostor. When Rian had returned a few days ago, Danjin had expected some sort of triumphant announcement that a threat to the lands had been dealt with, but none came. Did this mean Rian had failed? Or had he travelled south for an entirely different reason?

Auraya reached Mairae’s door and knocked lightly. It opened and the pale-haired White ushered them into her reception room.

“I’m nearly ready,” she said after exchanging quick formal greetings. “Just make yourselves comfortable.”

Her face was a little flushed, Danjin noted. She hurried into the private rooms of her quarters. Auraya smiled, then paused and looked questioningly at Leiard. The Dreamweaver met her eyes levelly and shrugged. Auraya turned away, apparently satisfied with what she had seen in his face, or read from his mind.

Mystery surrounds me constantly, Danjin thought wryly.

A small whine drew his attention back to Mischief. The veez was restless, turning circles in his cage and stopping to stare upward. Belatedly, Danjin looked up to find another veez clinging to the ceiling above them.

Mairae’s veez... What is its name? Stardust.

He could see why. The veez was black with tiny white speckles all over. A female. She leapt from the ceiling to the back of a chair, then scurried down to the floor. Approaching Mischief’s cage, she stood up on her hind legs and made the complex chittering noise that was the creature’s natural vocalization.

The door to the private rooms opened. Mairae walked back into the reception room. A servant followed close behind, carrying a small bag. Seeing Stardust, Mairae called the veez’s name.

“Are you taking Mischief?” Mairae asked Auraya as Stardust bounded over to her.

“I have to, if I’m going to complete his training according to the Somreyans’ instructions.”

Mairae bent to pet the veez at her feet. “I’d love to bring Stardust, but ships make her ill.” She pointed at the door to her private rooms. “Go inside.”

Stardust trotted to the doorway then sat down and gazed longingly at her mistress.

“I’ll be back soon,” Mairae assured the creature.

Stardust let out a long, exaggerated sigh, then folded her paws and rested her chin on them, so that she now blinked imploringly up at her mistress. Mairae rolled her eyes.

“Little manipulator,” she muttered. “We should go quickly, before she starts crying.”

“They do that?” Auraya asked.

“They can’t make tears like humans do, but they certainly know how to mimic a good wailing.” She closed the door. “Are you ready for your first sea journey?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Auraya replied.

Mairae gave them all one of her dazzling smiles. “Then let’s get ourselves to the docks before they think we’ve changed our minds and leave without us.”

Danjin smiled. As if one of the White’s ships would leave without the White. He followed Mairae out of the room. As they waited for the cage to arrive, he considered the task ahead.

Would everything work out as they hoped? There was a good chance it would, he decided. He would have thought otherwise if his impressions of the Dreamweaver had been less favorable. During all the consultations on the alliance, Leiard had been refreshingly frank about the terms that would offend his people, and yet the alternatives he’d suggested had not been unreasonable. So far Danjin had seen nothing to make him suspect the Dreamweaver wanted anything more than to reduce conflict between his people and Circlians.

Yet there was definitely something strange about Leiard. For a start, his behavior toward Auraya changed from moment to moment. Sometimes he was quiet and his manner and speech were respectful; at other times his tone was authoritative and confident. Perhaps he regained his confidence when he forgot who she was, then lost it when he remembered again.

Or was it something else? Danjin was not sure. Maybe it was Leiard’s nervousness with the other White that bothered him. Though Leiard had met and spoken with Mairae several times during discussions about the alliance, he was always warily polite to her. Around Dyara he was reluctant to speak at all, though this was probably because the older woman had made no pretense of her dislike of heathens. During one of the first meetings Dyara had questioned Leiard until Mairae had protested that half of their meeting time was being taken up with “interrogation.” Danjin suspected that Dyara found Leiard’s reticence and vague answers frustrating. Her dissatisfaction only sparked more questions.

Rian had appeared once during a meeting but had treated Leiard with indifference. Juran was the only White that Danjin had not observed Leiard interact with. It would be interesting to watch. He suspected that nothing would distress Leiard more than meeting the man who had killed the founder of his cult.

As the cage rose up toward them Danjin considered whether Leiard’s discomfort was simply contagious. I am uncomfortable around him because he is uncomfortable around the people I respect.

He was certain of one thing: he was going to keep a close eye on Leiard. The White might be difficult to deceive, but he’d never wager that it was impossible.

The outer arms of the Bay of Jarime had slowly drawn closer together during the last hour, revealing tall cliffs on either side. Auraya watched with interest as the crew of the Herald went about their tasks, following orders relayed down a chain of command. The ship pulled out of the bay, then between the two great columns of rock known as the Guardians. The swaying of the deck changed to a deep rolling as they entered the waters of Mirror Strait.

“Ships used to make me ill.”

Auraya glanced at Mairae. They were sitting up on the stern, where wooden benches hugged the railing. Soft cushions had been placed there for them and a canopy shaded them from the bright sun. Leiard and Danjin stood near the prow and a small team of servants were down in the hull preparing a light meal.

“Seasickness?” Auraya asked.

“Yes. It affected me so badly, I’d spend most of a journey barely conscious.” Mairae lifted her hand and splayed her fingers. The sunlight glinted off the white ring on her middle finger. “Sometimes it is the smallest of the gods’ Gifts that I treasure the most.”

Auraya looked at her own ring, then at the door leading to the rooms below deck.

“I hope Leiard and Danjin will be all right.”

“I’m sure the Dreamweaver has his own ways of curing seasickness, and Danjin has probably brought medicines for it. He’s very organized.”

“Yes.” Auraya smiled. “I don’t know what I’d do without him.” She turned to regard Mairae. “You don’t have an adviser?”

“I did, in the beginning. His name was Wesso, but I called him Old Westie because he came from Irian Island and his accent was so strong it was hard, sometimes, to understand him. He was my adviser for nearly ten years.” Her gaze became distant. “I didn’t need him by then, but dismissing him would have hurt him deeply, so I kept him until he died. I do miss him sometimes.”

Seeing the sadness in Mairae’s eyes, Auraya felt a pang of sympathy - and something akin to dread.

“Have you grown used to watching people grow old and die?” she asked in a low voice.

Mairae met Auraya’s eyes, her expression unusually grave. “No, but I have learned how best to allow myself to grieve. I give myself a measure of time to feel bad, then move on. And I don’t let myself anticipate it too much. The way I see it, you can’t worry overly much about the future when the future stretches endlessly before you.”

“I guess not. But sometimes I can’t stop worrying. I suppose that’s something I’ll have to learn, among other things.”

Mairae’s eyebrows rose. “What are you so worried about?”

Auraya hesitated, then shook her head. “Oh, just... small things. Nothing important.”

“You’re still human, Auraya. Just because you have big matters to deal with doesn’t mean the small ones don’t count. Since I’ve taken Dyara’s place as your teacher for this trip, it’s my job to answer all your questions, large or small.”

“I don’t discuss small matters with Dyara.”

Mairae grinned. “I don’t either. All the more reason to talk to me. So?”

“I worry about being lonely,” Auraya admitted.

Mairae nodded. “Everyone fears that, mortal or not. You will find new friends to replace the old.” She smiled. “And lovers, too.”

Like Haime, the Genrian prince? Auraya thought back to the morning, to the young man descending in the Tower cage. She had caught enough of his thoughts to know that he had just left Mairae’s rooms - and what he had been doing for most of the previous night. It had only confirmed that the rumors about Mairae and her lovers were true.

Mairae chuckled. “From the look on your face, I’d guess you’ve heard about mine.”

“Only rumors,” Auraya said evasively.

“It is impossible to keep secrets from other White, even more so from the servants.” She smiled. “It is ridiculous for anyone to expect us to remain celibate for all eternity.” Mairae winked. “The gods haven’t said we must.”

“Have they ever spoken to you?” Auraya asked, seizing the opportunity to change the subject. She suspected that once Mairae started discussing her former lovers, she’d expect Auraya to as well - and she was sure her own experiences would never live up to Mairae’s. “They’ve said nothing to me yet.”

Mairae nodded. “Sometimes.” She paused, her expression becoming distant and rapt. “Yranna likes my taste in men. She’s like a big sister.” She turned to face Auraya. “I’m sure you’ve heard about Anyala, Juran’s great love. Everyone talks about how wonderfully loyal Juran was. Trouble is, he hasn’t had another woman since, and she’s been dead nearly twenty years. That makes it look as if he expects the rest of us to remain celibate, too. You don’t think so, do you?” Mairae looked at Auraya expectantly.

“No. I... I had heard that Juran had a wife once,” Auraya said. She wasn’t having much success steering the conversation away from lovers.

“They were never married,” Mairae corrected. “The gods have been clear about that. No marriage or children. Juran hasn’t even looked at another woman since she died. It’s not healthy. And Dyara...” She rolled her eyes. “Dyara is worse. Such a typical prudish Genrian. She’s had this tragic love affair with Timare for nearly forty years. It’s never been physical. I don’t think she could bear the rest of us seeing her naked in Timare’s thoughts. The way she behaves, so secretive, makes people think that love is something to be ashamed of.”

“Timare?”

“Her favorite priest,” Mairae said. She looked at Auraya closely. “You didn’t know?”

“I only met High Priest Timare once or twice, before I was chosen.”

Mairae’s eyebrows rose. “I see. So Dyara’s keeping you two apart. She probably wants to stop you finding out her little secret.” She drummed her fingers on the bench. “Has she said anything to you about how you should behave when it comes to affairs of the heart - and bedroom?”

Auraya shook her head.

“Interesting. Well, don’t let Dyara impose her stuffy values on you. You’ll only make yourself lonely and bitter.”

“What... what about Rian?” Auraya asked, giving up on shifting the subject and instead deflecting it toward others.

Mairae’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “I don’t think he’s capable,” she muttered. Then she grimaced. “That’s cruel and unfair. Rian is lovely. But he’s just so... so...”

“Fanatical?”

Mairae sighed. “Yes. Nothing could come between Rian and the gods. Not even love. A woman could live with that, but not with being constantly reminded of it.”

Am I like that? Auraya wondered. In the years she had been a priestess she’d thought herself in love a few times, but the feeling of elation and connection had never lasted more than a few months. When she thought of the gods, the feeling of awe and reverence was something completely different. If it was love, it was nothing like the earthly feelings she’d had for those mortal lovers. So how could one leave no room for the other?

“He’s being a bit hard on himself for losing the Pentadrian,” Mairae added.

“Yes,” Auraya agreed eagerly. At last Mairae had turned to other matters. “Do you think the Pentadrian will come back?”

Mairae grimaced. “Maybe. Evil men are rarely deterred for long. If they do harm, and get away with it, they will usually try to do it again.”

“Will Juran send Rian to the southern continent, then?”

“I doubt it. This sorcerer is too close to Rian in strength. I doubt there are others like him in the south, but there are plenty of Pentadrians as Gifted as our high priests and priestesses there. With their help he might be a real danger to Rian. No, if we are to defeat him we’ll have to wait until he comes to us.”

Auraya shivered. “I won’t feel quite safe until I know he’s dead.”

“Don’t let it bother you.” Mairae’s face shifted into a wise expression Auraya had only seen on older people. “There have always been powerful sorcerers, Auraya. Some powerful enough to achieve immortality without the help of the gods. We’ve always defeated them.”

“The Wilds?”

“Yes. Power has a way of corrupting people. We are fortunate that we have the guidance of the gods and the knowledge that our Gifts would be removed if we turned to evil. The sad truth of the world is that most people who have great magical power don’t use it well. Their ambitions are usually selfish, and there is nobody strong enough to hold them to account for their wrong-doings.”

“Except us.”

“Yes. And by encouraging Gifted individuals to become priests we ensure new sorcerers are under our control.”

Auraya nodded. “Is this sorcerer one of the old Wilds?”

Mairae frowned. “A few evaded Juran and Dyara: a woman known as The Hag, a boy associated with the sea and sailors, called The Gull, and a pair known as The Twins. They haven’t been seen in a hundred years. Juran thinks they may have travelled to the other side of the world.”

“None of them sound like this sorcerer.”

“No. He is a new Wild, if he is one at all. The gods did warn us that we would encounter more. A few are born every thousand years. We must deal with them when they appear. For now, you and I have an alliance to negotiate.” She grinned. “And you must make the most of being free from Dyara’s yoke.”

“She’s not that bad.”

“Liar. She was my teacher too, remember. I know what she’s like. That’s part of the reason I insisted I couldn’t do this without you. She tried to convince Juran you were too inexperienced, but he can see this is well within your ability.”

Auraya stared at Mairae and struggled to think of a reply. She was saved by a familiar cry.

“Owaya! Owaya!”

A veez scampered across the deck, nearly tripping two of the crewmen, and launched itself into Auraya’s lap. Mairae laughed in delight as Mischief began licking Auraya’s face.

“Stop! Enough!” Auraya protested. As the veez calmed down, she frowned at it disapprovingly. “How did you get out?”

The veez gazed up at her adoringly.

“I believe he picked the lock of his cage again,” a male voice replied. Leiard strolled across the deck toward them. Auraya felt her heart leap at the sight of him. He had proved to be more useful in the role of adviser than she had hoped. It was so good to have his company on this journey. His presence gave her confidence.

“Cage bad,” the veez muttered.

“I heard the servants cursing him, and offered to bring him back,” Leiard told her.

“Thank you, Leiard.” She sighed. “I expect he’ll just do it again. He may as well stay with me.”

Leiard nodded. His gaze slid to Mairae, then his eyes dropped to the deck.

“Mairae of the White,” he said.

“Dreamweaver Leiard,” she replied.

He looked at Auraya again. “I will tell the servants he is with you.”

As he walked away, Mairae gave a small sigh. “I like tall men. He has nice eyes. Pity he’s a Dreamweaver.”

Auraya turned to stare at her fellow White in shock, as Mairae laughed. “Oh, Auraya. You are nearly as much a prude as Dyara. I don’t seriously want to bed him, but I don’t think there’s anything wrong with admiring a man’s finer points any more than it’s wrong to admire a flower or a particularly well-bred reyer.”

Auraya shook her head reproachfully. “Nothing wrong at all, except I don’t want to be thinking of the men around me like that.”

“Why not?”

“I have to work with them. I don’t need the distraction of wondering what they’d be like in bed.”

Mairae chuckled. “One day you might, when you realize how many long, boring meetings you’re going to have to sit through in the future.”

Auraya could think of nothing to say to that.

A servant hurried out onto the stern and made the gesture of the circle. “Midday refreshments are ready,” she said. “Shall I bring them up here?”

“Yes, thank you,” Mairae replied. She rose and looked down at Auraya. “I guess we’re about to find out how well your adviser is dealing with sea travel.”

Auraya smiled and lifted the veez onto her shoulder. “I guess we will.”

10

There is a particular kind of tension that comes over people near the end of a journey. For the crew of the Herald it had to do with preparing for the subtler task of directing the ship into a port already crowded with vessels. For the passengers it was anticipation of leaving the discomfort of the seacraft behind, balanced by mingled hopes and doubts for what they might experience at their destination.

Leiard considered Auraya’s adviser, who was standing on the other side of the two seated White. Danjin Spear was intelligent and knowledgeable, and had been respectful toward Leiard, though occasional comments had betrayed his dislike of Dreamweavers in general.

He turned his attention to Mairae. Of all the White, apart from Auraya, she was the most friendly toward him. Her warmth appeared to be a natural part of her character rather than something practiced, but it was clear she preferred highborn company. While she sympathized with the poor and praised the hard-working merchants and artisans, she didn’t treat them the same way as she did the rich and powerful. He guessed she regarded Dreamweavers somewhere between the poor and artisans, and probably pitied rather than despised them.

Unlike Auraya, who neither pitied nor despised Dreamweavers. Leiard looked down at her and could not help feeling a little glow of pride. It was hard not to when he considered what she had achieved. The other White had accepted him and his advice, though some obviously did so begrudgingly.

They’re relying on me to make this alliance happen. Who would have guessed? The Gods’ Chosen relying on a Dreamweaver.

A gust of cold air swept over them, taking the ship ever closer to the city. Arbeem’s square whitestone houses were built on a slope that dropped steeply toward the water. They looked like a jumble of oversized staircases. Occasional patches of green broke the endless white. Somreyans loved gardens.

In the center of the port an enormous statue stood upon a massive column. The weathering it had suffered suggested immense age and rendered the face almost unrecognizable. A memory flashed into Leiard’s mind, jolting him with its strength. It was of the same statue, but less weathered. A name came with it.

Svarlen. God of the sea.

This had to be a link memory - and an ancient one. Leiard gazed up at the colossus as the ship passed it, allowing the old image of a newer statue to overlay the reality of it now. He heard a horn blowing and turned to face the city again.

A boat was moving forward to meet them, propelled by rowers. It was wide-berthed and spectacularly decorated, the emblem of the Council of Elders painted on its sail.

The captain of the Herald called an order. The sail was furled and the ship drifted to a halt. As the council boat pulled alongside, both crews threw ropes to the other vessel and secured the craft together.

Three important-looking individuals stood on board the boat, each wearing the gold sash of a member of the Council of Elders. To the left was a robust, gray-haired high priest. His name was Haleed, Leiard recalled. To the right was a middle-aged woman in a Dreamweaver vest. This would be Arleej, the Dreamweaver elder. The leader of his people.

He had been looking forward to meeting this woman. In the messages sent between the council and the White via priests in both lands, Leiard had seen hints of a sharp-minded, proud woman. Pride was not a characteristic Dreamweavers were encouraged to display, but neither was judging too quickly, he reminded himself. The leader of the Dreamweavers would need to be strong in this age.

The third man on the boat, standing between the others, was thin and elderly, but though he carried a walking staff his eyes were clear and alert. This, Leiard guessed, was the council’s Moderator, Meeran.

Rising from their seat, Auraya and Mairae thanked the captain of the Herald then crossed to the welcoming craft. Leiard and Danjin followed, the adviser carrying Mischief in his cage. A sulky muttering came from the veez. During the journey Auraya had taught her pet to endure imprisonment in exchange for generous rewards. Despite this, his tolerance for the cage lasted no longer than an hour.

As soon as the White were aboard, Meeran stepped forward.

“Welcome to Somrey, Chosen of the Gods.” He bowed slightly then made the formal sign of the circle. “I am Moderator Meeran. It is our pleasure to see you again, Mairae Gemshaper, and an honor to be the first foreign land to receive Auraya Dyer.”

Arleej’s eyes slid to Leiard’s. Her stare was intense and questioning, and he sensed doubt and suspicion. He inclined his head, and she dropped her chin once in reply.

“We are delighted to be visiting your fair islands, Moderator Meeran,” Mairae replied, “and I am pleased to be renewing my acquaintance with you and all the council members.” She looked at Haleed and Arleej. The pair inclined their heads and murmured a reply.

“I have been looking forward to meeting each of you,” Auraya said, smiling with enthusiasm. Arleej’s lips curled upward in response, but her smile did not extend to her eyes. “I have heard much about the beauty of your land, and hope to see some of your country,” Auraya added, “if I have time.”

In other words, if we settle this quickly, Leiard thought.

“Then we must arrange a tour for you.” Meeran’s smile was genuine. His gaze then shifted past Mairae to Danjin. “This must be Danjin Spear. I had the pleasure of trading with your father, in my younger days.”

Danjin chuckled. “Yes. He spoke both admiringly and scathingly of your bargaining skills many times.”

Meeran’s smile widened. “I imagine he did, but I like to think those skills are put to better use now, for the benefit of the people.” His gaze flickered to Auraya, and Leiard wondered if she had noted the subtle warning in the man’s words. Then Meeran’s attention turned to Leiard. “And you must be Dreamweaver Adviser Leiard.”

Leiard nodded.

“Have you visited Somrey before?”

“I have memories of this place, but they are old.”

Arleej’s eyebrows rose fractionally.

“Then welcome back, Dreamweaver,” Meeran said. “I look forward to hearing how you came to be in this unique and promising position of Dreamweaver adviser to the White. Now,” he turned and clapped his hands, “we shall offer you refreshments.”

The boat had pulled away from the ship, the rowers’ backs flexing as the oars cut through the water. Meeran ushered the visitors to seats and made polite conversation while servants brought glasses of a warm spiced drink called ahm.

A high wall ran along the entire length of the city. On top of it was a long line of people, those in front sitting with their feet dangling over the edge. As the welcoming craft drew closer the calls of these people grew audible. Auraya and Mairae waved, rousing a cheer from the crowd.

The craft did not dock in front of this gathering, but moved on. Leiard saw armed guards keeping the people from straying beyond a certain section of the dock. After this only a line of priests and priestesses waited and it was toward these people the ship moved.

Solid wooden walkways had been built all along the dock wall. As the boat’s hull settled against one, the rowers drew up their oars. Some secured the boat to the dock, while others set down a carved and painted bridge for the visitors to cross.

Meeran led them off the welcoming craft and up a stairway. At the top of the wall, the priests and priestesses stared at Mairae and Auraya, their awe and excitement strong enough for Leiard to sense it without effort. Two high priests stepped forward to be introduced by Haleed. Looking beyond them, Leiard realized he stood within Arbeem’s Temple. The building was a humbler style than those in Jarime and was built in the same fashion as most of the city structures - single-story and plain.

Hearing his name spoken, Leiard brought his attention back to the introductions. The high priests regarded him with suppressed curiosity and doubt. When all had been introduced, Arleej announced that she must depart.

“I must return to the Dreamweaver House. We are performing the spring link tonight,” she explained. She turned to Leiard. “Would you like to attend, Dreamweaver Leiard?”

His pulse quickened. A link, and a chance to consult another Dreamweaver about his strange memories. “I would be honored,” he replied slowly. “I may be needed here, however.”

“Not tonight, Leiard,” Auraya said. She met his eyes levelly, and gave an almost imperceptible nod. Meet your people, her expression seemed to say. Let them see that you can be trusted. “But we will wish to consult with you tomorrow morning,” she added.

“Then I will attend,” he announced. “And return tonight.”

Arleej nodded. “I look forward to meeting you all again tomorrow,” she said, nodding politely. The others murmured replies. As she turned away, a priest stepped forward and offered to guide them through the Temple.

The Dreamweaver elder was silent as they followed the priest. After a short journey they stepped out of the building into a courtyard. A covered four-wheeled tarn and driver waited nearby.

“The high priest was going to send us out of the main gates,” she said, “but I insisted we leave this way. A crowd was bound to gather out the front, which would have made our exit difficult.”

Leiard nodded. Was she implying that the crowd was likely to be dangerous, or that it would simply block the way? While Somrey was the nation most tolerant and supportive of Dreamweavers, there were always small groups with views contrary to the majority in any country.

The tarn was simple and undecorated, and the driver a hired man. Leiard settled next to Arleej on the seat. The Dreamweaver elder told the driver their destination, and soon they were travelling along the narrow, crowded roads of the city.

As the tarn neared the Dreamweaver House, Arleej considered her companion. He was not what she had expected, but then her expectations hadn’t been specific. Just someone less like a Dreamweaver and more like a Circlian.

Leiard was, if anything, more Dreamweaver-like than she. The way he answered her questions reminded her strongly of her teacher. Keefler had not known his year of birth, and had lived for most of his life in a remote location. He, too, had been quiet and watchful.

The answers to her questions about his relationship with Auraya of the White had startled her into silence. He had begun teaching the woman as a child in the hope that she would become his student. She had joined the Circlians instead. If Arleej had suffered such a disappointment she doubted she would have been able to face her former student without struggling with resentment. Leiard appeared to have accepted Auraya’s choice and her elevation to the White. He described her, of all things, as a friend.

It all seemed too good to be true. That the gods had chosen someone who had been taught by and sympathized with Dreamweavers was incredible. That they tolerated any thought of their people working with Dreamweavers was even more so. Had they finally come to accept the existence of heathens?

She doubted it. A century of persecution had lessened Dreamweaver numbers, but not eliminated them. The early years of violence after Mirar’s death had encouraged the compassionate to sympathize with Dreamweavers and the rebellious to join the cult. Now, perhaps, the gods sought to woo heathens to them by appearing to be generous and benevolent.

They will fail, she thought. So long as Dreamweavers pass link memories from generation to generation there will be no forgetting the true nature of the gods.

The tarn turned a corner and pulled up in front of a large building. The street was busy, and people moved constantly in and out of the building. Leiard looked up at the symbols carved into the façade.

“The only Dreamweaver House still standing in Northem Ithania,” Arleej said. “Come inside.”

He followed her into a generous hall. Three elderly Dreamweavers stepped forward to greet Arieej, speaking Somreyan. When she introduced him as the Dreamweaver adviser to the White, their expressions became wary.

Leiard greeted them in Somreyan. Arieej stared at him in surprise. “Your grasp of our language is impressive,” she said.

He shrugged. “I know many languages.”

“The spring link is about to begin,” a voice called.

Arieej glanced at Leiard and noted a glint of intensity in his gaze. He was looking forward to this, she decided. She started toward the corridor. Leiard followed and the three elderly Dreamweavers came after, uncharacteristically silent, Arieej thought. No doubt it has occurred to them that he will join us, and they’re deciding if that is for good or ill. It is a gamble. He may learn much about us, but they must realize that we may also learn of his, and the White’s, intentions in regard to the alliance.

Had Auraya realized this when she had allowed him to leave her side for the evening?

The corridor ended at a large wooden door. Arieej pushed it open and stepped out into a round, sunken garden. The air was cool and moist. Several Dreamweavers were already present, forming a broken ring. Leiard glanced around, a look of mild puzzlement on his face. As if he recognized the place.

Arieej joined the circle, stepping aside to allow room for Leiard. The elderly Dreamweavers from the hall took their places. Arieej waited until all was quiet, then a little longer to allow the stillness of the place to calm her thoughts before she spoke the words of the ritual.

“We gather tonight in peace and in pursuit of understanding. Our minds will be linked. Our memories shall flow between us. Let none seek or spy, or impose a will upon another. Instead, we shall become one mind.”

She lifted her arms to either side and took hold of the hands of her neighbors. Two minds touched her senses, then dozens more as all of the Dreamweavers linked hands and minds. There was a shared feeling of elation, then a brief pause.

Images and impressions quickly overwhelmed all sense of the physical world. Memories of childhood mingled with those of recent events. Images of well-known faces followed those of strangers. Snatches of remembered conversations echoed in the thoughts of all. She didn’t move to guide them; she let the mingled thoughts move where they would.

Slowly the inevitable happened. All were curious about the newcomer. As some wondered who he was, those that knew revealed his identity. Leiard’s response was slow, beginning with his acknowledgment of his position as Dreamweaver adviser, then shifting to include many layers of thought. Arleej understood that he hoped to help his people. She also saw the affection and admiration he felt for Auraya. At the same time, he revealed his fear of the White and their gods.

Arleej watched with amusement as his thoughts now began to run in circles. Every time he considered his distrust and dislike of the gods and the White, the thought of Auraya brought reassurance. While he believed she would not willingly harm him or other Dreamweavers, he was not foolish enough to think she would not do so if ordered by the gods. He felt this worth the risk.

All were relieved to see he was working with Auraya for his people’s benefit, not the gods’ or even Auraya’s. Being around any Circlian other than Auraya stirred a deep fear in him, however. Such fear came only from experience. Had something terrible happened to him? As Arleej considered this, Leiard’s thoughts turned to other matters that worried him. Strange memories came to him unbidden, he revealed.

Sometimes thoughts sprang into his mind that did not feel like they were entirely his own. The curiosity of the other linked Dreamweavers rose.

In response, these memories began to spill forth.

She saw the Guardian in the port. The statue was not as weathered, and she suddenly knew what it represented. A god - and not one that the Circlians now worshipped.

She saw a smaller Arbeem, with a half-constructed dock wall. She saw the Dreamweaver House as a new building painted in bright, welcoming colors.

She saw the face of an elderly Dreamweaver man and knew him to be her predecessor from centuries earlier. A thought came with it, and it was nothing like Leiard’s internal voice.

A proud one, that Dreamweaver elder. I had to talk him out of withholding care from the Moderator, though the man deserved it. That was the last time I visited Somrey. Wasn’t much of a kingdom then - not even considered part of Northern Ithania. Who’d have thought it would become the only refuge for Dreamweavers?

Arleej’s heart was racing. Leiard is right, she thought. These aren’t his thoughts. They are Mirar’s.

She had encountered similar link memories before. Most Dreamweavers had fragments of Mirar’s recollections, gained during links. Mirar been linked with other Dreamweavers for so long, there were plenty of his link memories still around. There was something comforting about the thought that the ritual Mirar had begun in order to encourage understanding and speed teaching should also keep part of him alive in the minds of his followers.

However, Leiard carried more than just fragments of Mirar’s memories. His mind was full of so many recollections that a sense of Mirar’s personality had emerged. It was like knowing someone so well, you could predict how they would behave or speak.

Arleej sensed the excitement of the other Dreamweavers. She could feel them greedily prodding for more memories, but the flood had abated now as Leiard contemplated the source of them. Arleej could see that he hadn’t known or even guessed the truth. He was not even sure who he had picked the memories up from. Probably his teacher, though he had no strong memory of the man - or woman.

And that was something that had also bothered him. Why were so many of his own memories so hazy?

:You have many link memories, she told him. And you have spent long years in isolation. With time, it is easy to forget which recollections are yours and which are not. The boundaries have blurred, so you must re-establish them. Linking is the best method. The assertion of your identity at the end of a link strengthens your sense of self.

:But linking will give me more link memories, Leiard pointed out.

:Yes, it will. However, the more you link, the less of a problem that will be. For now, link with only one other Dreamweaver so there is less memory transfer for every self-assertion. Link with younger people who have fewer memories to transfer. This young man you are teaching, for example, would suit you well.

Jayim. Leiard considered how little experience of life the boy had. Yes, he will be most suitable - if he decides to remain a Dreamweaver.

Disappointment flowed from several of the Dreamweavers. They had realized that Leiard could not join in another link with them while in Arbeem, so they would not see more of Mirar’s memories. Arleej felt a wry amusement. Her people had put aside all their suspicions and now accepted and trusted him. Was this just because he held Mirar’s memories?

No, she decided. His intentions are good. His loyalty is to us, though it would be sorely tested if he were forced to choose between his people and Auraya. That he felt this newest of the White to be worthy of his regard was a good sign, too.

Satisfied, she began the last part of the ritual, the self-assertion.

I am Arleej, Dreamweaver elder. Born in Teerninya to Leenin Booter and...

She drew her thoughts in to herself as she recalled those facts that she felt most defined her. As she opened her eyes, she turned to find Leiard still involved in the ritual. The lines about his forehead deepened, then he drew in a deep breath and looked at her. She smiled and released his hand.

“You have been a surprise to us, Leiard.”

His gaze shifted to the other Dreamweavers, who had gathered in groups to talk, and were no doubt talking about him. “Tonight’s discovery was a surprise to me as well. I have much to think about. Will I cause offense if I leave now?”

Arleej shook her head. “No, they will understand. Most return home soon after a link - though I think they would break that habit tonight if you stayed. I’ll see you out, before they pounce.” She ushered him toward the door, waving away one of the elder Dreamweavers as he stepped forward.

“Leiard must return to his travelling companions,” she announced. There were murmurs of disappointment. Leiard touched his heart, mouth and forehead and each of the Dreamweavers solemnly followed suit.

As she led him down the corridor to the entrance of the House, Arleej could think of nothing to say, only a stream of questions best left for another time. They stepped out of the House to find a hired platten had just arrived carrying a family with a sick child. She hailed the driver.

“Are you free for another ride?” she asked.

“Where to?” the man asked.

“The Temple,” she instructed. “The back entrance.”

The driver’s eyebrows rose. She bartered a fair price and paid the man, then watched as Leiard climbed aboard.

“I expect I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.

“Yes.” Leiard smiled then turned to face the front. Taking this as a cue, the driver flicked the reins and the vehicle drew away.

Arleej shook her head slowly. It was odd, indeed, to be sending a Dreamweaver “home” to a Circlian Temple.

When the vehicle had turned out of sight, she hurried back inside the House. As she expected, her closest confidant, Dreamweaver Neeran, was waiting for her in the hall. His eyes were wide with wonder.

“That was... was...”

“Astounding,” she agreed. “Come up to my room. We need to talk.”

“Of all the people to have Mirar’s memories,” he breathed as he followed her up the stairs, “it had to be the Dreamweaver adviser to the White.”

“An extraordinary man in an extraordinary position,” she agreed. Reaching the door to her room, she pushed it open and ushered Neeran inside. He turned to stare at her.

“Do you think the White know?”

She considered. “If he didn’t, then how could they?”

“All of the White can read minds. Surely Juran will have recognized something of Mirar in Leiard.”

Arleej thought of Leiard’s words: “... all minds are visible to the White.”

“If Juran has, then he was not bothered by it. If he hasn’t, well, now that this is known by us and Leiard, the White will discover it too. I only hope this will not cause him trouble.”

Neeran’s eyes widened and he nodded in agreement. “They also know that Leiard has been working to our mutual benefit.” He looked up at Arleej. “Which is curious in itself, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “Curious that someone with so much of Mirar in them would encourage this alliance?”

“Yes.”

“No matter what the White do about Leiard, one thing is clear.” She moved to the fireplace, where a bottle of ahm stood warming beside the hearth. “We should consider the possibility, strange as it may seem, that an alliance between Somrey and the White is what Mirar would have wanted.”

As the dark speck in the sky grew larger, Tryss watched apprehensively. Hours had passed since the time Drilli had said she would meet him. He had strapped on his new harness three times, determined he would not wait for her. Each time he had unstrapped the harness again. She had extracted a promise from him that he wouldn’t test it unless she was there to see, and he didn’t want to disappoint her.

Now, watching the approaching Siyee, he felt his pulse quicken with alternating dread and excitement. Drilli had come to observe him work many times. He had expected her to grow bored, but she just sat close by and talked endlessly. To his surprise, he liked it. Mostly she spoke of their families, or the landwalker’s alliance proposal, but often she would question him about the things he had made. Sometimes she made suggestions. Occasionally they were good.

The speck had grown into a figure now. It descended toward him and he sighed with relief as he recognized Drilli’s wing patterns. He picked up the harness and ducked his head through the loop of the neck strap, then began to secure the other bindings.

A whistle of greeting heralded her arrival. She landed gracefully and strode toward him, grinning.

“Look at you,” she said.

“You’re late,” he told her, completely failing to sound annoyed.

“I know. I’m sorry. Mother had me plucking girri for hours.” She flexed her fingers. “Are you ready?”

“Been ready for hours.”

“Let’s go, then.”

They leapt into the air together. The wind set the straps of his harness humming. It was lighter than the last, having fewer parts. The main weight hung from just below his chest, however, so he was more conscious of this harness than the last.

“Comfortable?” Drilli called.

“Bearable,” he replied.

They swooped down toward a narrow valley. Unlike the bare sides of the mountain, which were covered with only the toughest of grasses and trees, the valley was filled with vegetation and more likely to be hiding prey. As they swooped across the treetops something launched itself into the air. Drilli gave a whoop of excitement.

“Get him!” she shrieked.

It was an ark, a predatory bird more used to hovering, swooping and stunning its prey with paralyzing magic than being chased itself. It glided below them, occasionally flapping its wings.

Tryss followed it. He drew his arms together and grabbed the pipe strapped to his side, then spread his wings wide before he could fall far. Another quick movement brought the pipe to his lips. Now it was time to see if his latest adaptation proved useful.

With one end of the pipe held between his teeth, he dipped the other into the basket of tiny darts hanging below his chest. He sucked in and felt a dart lodge in the pipe. Looking up again, he saw that the ark had changed direction. He shifted his wings and pursued it.

The bird glided below, unsure what to make of its pursuers. While Siyee would happily catch and eat ark, they rarely bothered so were not familiar predators to the birds. Tryss aimed as best he could, with the pipe fixed between his teeth, then blew as hard as he was able.

And missed.

Tryss growled - the closest he could get to a curse while holding the pipe between his teeth. He bent to take another dart into the pipe, then took aim again. This time he missed by an arm’s length. Sighing, he tried once more, but at the last moment the bird dived into the protection of the trees.

Frustration coiled around him like strangling vines. He gritted his teeth and felt the pipe split. This time he did curse, and the pipe fell out of his mouth into the vegetation below.

Suddenly all he wanted to do was get rid of the contraption strapped to him. He flew toward an outcrop on one side of the valley, landed heavily, then sat down and started pulling at the harness straps. Drilli dropped onto the ground in front of him.

“Stop. Let me do that,” she said, grabbing his hands.

He wanted to push her away. Why am I so angry? Standing up, he relaxed and let her undo the bindings. Frustration and anger bled away as the pressure of them lessened, and as he found himself standing closer to her than he had ever dared.

“So what happened?” she asked as the harness slid to the ground.

He grimaced. “I missed. Then the pipe split. I... I crushed it between my teeth.”

She nodded slowly. “I can make you another, but you’ll have to get better at using it.”

“How?”

“Practice. I told you it wasn’t as easy as it looked.”

“But I have been practicing.”

“On the ground. You need to practice using it from the air. On moving targets.” She looked away and frowned. “And I think you need to build something to help support it while you’re aiming - and so if you drop it you won’t lose it.”

He stared at her, then smiled.

“I don’t know why you bother with me, Drilli.”

She looked at him, then grinned. “You’re interesting, Tryss. And clever. But a bit slow at times.”

He winced. “Slow?”

“I’ve got a question for you, Tryss. How many times should a girl mention to a boy that she hasn’t got a partner for the trei-trei before she gives up and tries someone else?”

He stared at her in surprise. She winked, took two steps back then turned and dived off the outcrop. A moment later she swooped upward on an updraft.

Shaking his head, he abandoned the harness and set off in pursuit.

11

The Temple of Arbeem was a beautiful place. Though smaller and much less spectacular than the one in Hania, there was no part of it that didn’t have a pleasing view. The front overlooked the port, and windows had been placed wherever possible to offer a glimpse of water.

Behind the Temple was a garden of many tiers. All rear windows offered a view of greenery. Auraya had been longing for the chance to explore it, but in the five days since their arrival in Somrey she hadn’t found an opportunity until now.

Mairae walked beside her.

“I’ve been thinking about Leiard,” she said quietly. “These link memories of Mirar’s don’t bother me. Maybe he has more than most Dreamweavers, but that doesn’t make him Mirar.” She chuckled. “Mirar was a flirt and a shameless seducer of women. Leiard doesn’t strike me as either.”

Auraya smiled. “No. You’re worried about what the others will think, aren’t you?”

Mairae grimaced. “Yes. Rian won’t like it, but he doesn’t stick his nose in other Whites’ business - though he’ll certainly give his opinion on the subject. Dyara will probably be alarmed and worried that Mirar will somehow still work against us through Leiard. She’ll want you to dismiss Leiard, despite all the help he’s given us.”

“And Juran?”

“I don’t know.” Mairae frowned. “Have you ever discussed Mirar with Juran?”

Auraya shook her head.

“He doesn’t talk about it in the way you’d expect. You’d think he’d be happy that Mirar is no longer making his life difficult, but instead he says it was a - how did he put it? - an ‘unfortunate necessity.’ I think he even feels guilty about it. Definitely regretful.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” Mairae shrugged. “But I think seeing Mirar’s memories in Leiard’s mind might stir more guilt and regret.”

“I see.” Auraya chewed on her lip. “If I replace Leiard with another Dreamweaver there’s still a chance Juran will be reminded of Mirar. Many of them carry Mirar’s memories, though it is rare to find this many in one person. A younger Dreamweaver might not have any, but he may not be as useful to us.”

Mairae sighed. “And just being around a Dreamweaver is going to remind him. It’s a question of degree. I’m sure Juran is capable of living with reminders of the past, but confronting him with actual memories of Mirar’s may be a bit much to ask.”

“What should we do?”

Mairae pursed her lips, then shrugged. “Wait and see. I’ll let Juran know about these memories so he is prepared for them. Should they prove a problem, I’ll let you know. Otherwise, just keep on as before.”

Auraya sighed with relief. “I will.” They reached a small stone pavilion and sat down. A full-sized statue of Chaia stood in an alcove. It was impressively accurate - a solid version of the glowing figure she had come face-to-face with at the Choosing Ceremony. “I should be worn out. All that political discussion, but it never tired me.”

“Another of the gods’ Gifts,” Mairae said. “Without them I’m sure all that rich Somreyan food would have made us sick - or fat.”

Auraya grinned. “Do you think there’s a noble family here that hasn’t fed us? We’ve eaten every meal at a different house.”

“I was beginning to suspect they’d invent new mealtimes just so we could visit more people.”

“I feel a bit guilty about it, actually. While we’ve been socializing, poor Leiard has been running back and forth between us and the Dreamweaver House. He’s exhausted.”

“Then we’ll have to hope, for his sake, that the council accept the modifications to the alliance or he’ll have to go through it all again. Ah - here’s your other man.”

Auraya looked up, expecting to see Danjin, but instead a furry shape bounded out of the garden and leapt onto her knee.

“Owaya!” Mischief looked up at her and fluttered his eyelashes.

She choked back a laugh. He had learned the mannerism from the many veez belonging to Somreyan families. It appeared to melt the hearts of most rich Somreyan women. Not me, she told herself, though she had an uneasy suspicion she might be wrong.

She hadn’t intended to take him with her on her social visits, but Mairae assured her that the Somreyans expected her to take her pet everywhere, as they did. At gatherings the veez played boisterously with each other, though servants always hovered nearby to discourage unplanned amorous encounters. Mischief had learned many new words, including some that were going to scandalize Auraya’s servants when he returned to Hania - if any understood Somreyan.

Now, as he realized his latest trick had failed to make a treat appear in her hands, he began to look sulky. He gave a little huff and hung his head.

“You’re so mean,” Mairae said. “I’ll take him to the kitchen and find him something to chew on. I do believe this sensation I am feeling is hunger. I’d almost forgotten what that was.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“Stay,” Mairae said. “You won’t be alone long.”

Auraya blinked in surprise, then concentrated on the minds around her. She found Leiard’s quickly, as he was walking through the garden toward her.

“Mischief. Snack.” Mairae held out an arm. The veez looked from her to Auraya.

“Go on,” Auraya said.

He leapt from her lap and scurried up Mairae’s arm to her shoulder. Auraya watched them walk away, smiling as the veez licked Mairae’s ear and caused her to flinch.

Soon afterward she heard footsteps. Leiard came around a corner and saw her. He smiled and lengthened his stride. As he reached the pavilion his eyes strayed to the statue of Chaia and his face froze for a moment, then his gaze returned to her.

“Auraya of the White,” he said formally.

“Dreamweaver Leiard,” she replied.

“It grows late,” he observed. “Will they decide today, do you think?”

She lifted one eyebrow at him. “I’ve never seen you anxious before.”

His lips twitched up at one corner. “It would be disappointing if we came so far only to have them reject the alliance.”

“Yes, it would, but perhaps it would only take a little more negotiation to persuade them.”

“Perhaps.”

He glanced at the statue again. She turned to regard it. If Chaia was watching, what did he make of Leiard? Were the gods bothered by the revelation that the Dreamweaver adviser to the White contained Mirar’s memories?

No, they probably knew all along, she realized. They would have warned me if Leiard was a danger.

But would they warn her if this put him in danger? Standing up, she moved out of the pavilion and began to stroll down the path. Leiard let out a long, quiet sigh of relief and fell into step beside her.

She felt a pang of annoyance at the sigh. It reminded her that, even if she managed to encourage tolerance for Dreamweavers among Circlians, he would never be comfortable around anything to do with the gods. That was to be expected. He had turned from the gods to become a Dreamweaver. When he died the gods would not take his soul. It would cease to exist. The thought pained her. I am immortal. I won’t ever meet him in the afterlife. It wouldn’t be so bad if he simply worshipped a different god. At least I’d know he still existed somewhere.

She shook her head. Why would someone reject the gods and their chance at eternity? She turned to regard him, and his eyebrows rose in query. “What is it?”

“Why did you become a Dreamweaver, Leiard?”

He shrugged. “I don’t remember exactly,” he said. “Must have been the right decision at the time.”

“What did your family think - do you remember that?”

He frowned, then shook his head. “My parents are dead.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

Leiard made a dismissive gesture. “It was a long time ago, when I was young. I barely remember them.”

Auraya laughed. “When you were young? Leiard, you can’t be all that old. You’re the only person I know who seems to get younger every time we meet.”

“That’s because you’ve been growing up.”

She crossed her arms. “How old are you?”

He paused and frowned. “About forty, I think.”

“You think? How can you not know exactly how old you are?”

His frown deepened. “Arleej believes my loss of memory is caused by me not linking with other Dreamweavers for many years.”

Sensing his distress, she decided to change the subject. It was clear his loss of certain memories bothered him. “How many years has it been since you joined a link?”

“Not since before I lived in the forest near your village.”

She drummed her fingers against her arm. “How long were you in the village before my family arrived?”

“A few years.”

“Then you haven’t linked for nearly twenty years. How old are Dreamweavers when their training is finished?”

He looked at her oddly. “Twenty, if they start young.”

She nodded. So he was right: he was about forty. For some reason that disappointed her. Maybe because the older he was, the less time she would know him for. He would only grow older while she stayed the same physical age. It gave her an uncomfortable feeling that time was running out. A few more decades and his soul would be gone forever.

“Have Dreamweavers ever served the gods?” she found herself asking.

“No.”

“Do you think they ever would in the future?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because we don’t want to.”

She looked at him sidelong. “Because they had Mirar killed?”

“Partly.”

“And the other part is?”

“Because being powerful does not give someone the right to tell others how to think or live, or who to kill.”

“Not even if that someone is older and wiser than you? Like a god?”

“No.” He looked away. “People should have a choice whether they worship the gods or not.”

“They do.”

“Without punishment or penalty?”

“So you expect them to take your soul whether you worship them or not?” she asked in return.

“No. I expect my people to be free from persecution.”

“That is in the past.”

“Is it? Then why do Dreamweavers still fear to walk the streets of Jarime? Why are they forbidden to practice their skills in order to help people?”

Auraya sighed. “Because of what happened a century ago. And I don’t mean Mirar’s death.”

He said nothing to that. She was both relieved and disappointed. While she did not want to argue with him, she did want to hear his view on the events in the past that had led to the Dreamweavers’ situation now.

According to records she had read, Mirar had been both admirable in his work and self-indulgent in his habits. He had taught his people everything about medicines and care for the sick or wounded. His Gift of healing had been unique and he’d been generous at applying it.

But he’d had a reputation for indulging in drink, pleasure drugs and seduction that had scandalized many. Dreamweavers, though they did not speak of it, knew that the reputation was well earned. The truth was in link memories of Mirar and those who had known him, passed down through the generations. Auraya could see this knowledge in their minds. She had seen it in Leiard’s.

Still, it was not Mirar’s character flaws that had convinced the gods that he must be killed. He had worked openly against them, trying to prevent the formation of the White. He had seeded doubts, telling the people malicious lies about the fate of their souls in the gods’ hands. He had claimed that some of the dead gods had not deserved their fate, while the Circle were guilty of terrible acts of cruelty. And the final action that had condemned him had been to send the people of Ithania powerful dreams in an attempt to turn them away from the gods.

Instead, the people had begged the gods to free them from his manipulations.

He brought about his own death, she thought.

Yet what followed Mirar’s death had been terrible. The gods had never decreed that ordinary Dreamweavers should be killed, but there had been many murders of Dreamweavers after Mirar’s death, carried out by overly enthusiastic Circlian followers. These fanatics had been punished, but it took a long time to discourage others from emulating them.

Most Circlians knew that no priest had ever matched a fully trained Dreamweaver in medical skills or knowledge. Now that Auraya understood the purpose and benefits of a mind link, she had realized that this was how the Dreamweavers shared and passed on so much knowledge. As far as she knew, no priest had ever attempted anything like a mind link. Except for telepathy, which did not involve opening one’s mind to another, Circlians felt an aversion to having their minds messed with. Invading another’s mind was a crime - a law which had been instated because of Mirar’s actions.

Perhaps it’s time for us to get over our squeamishness, Auraya mused. If the Circlian priests learned to do what Dreamweavers could, they, too, could increase their knowledge of healing. She felt a chill run over her skin. If they matched, even surpassed, the Dreamweavers, one of the most powerful attractions for newcomers to the heathen cult would be lost. The Dreamweaver cult might fade out of existence in a few generations. Or in one, if I or other White pass on the knowledge we read from their minds.

She shivered. No. That would make us guilty of the crime people have always suspected Dreamweavers of: invading the privacy of another’s mind and using the information to harm others.

Yet it could be done without any linking of minds. If priests could be persuaded to work alongside Dreamweavers they were sure to pick up new skills and knowledge. It would be slow, but it would encourage tolerance and acceptance in the meantime.

Do I really want to be the cause of the Dreamweavers’ demise?

No. But I can’t continue to let people turn away from the gods and sacrifice their souls. Not when it isn’t necessary. People believe that the Dreamweavers’ healing knowledge will be lost unless some make that sacrifice. But if they could learn the same things by becoming priests and priestesses would they still become heathens?

Today, in this garden, with Leiard walking beside her, she had stumbled upon a terrible dilemma. One day she was going to have to choose between keeping his friendship and saving souls.

But not right now. Danjin had appeared on the path before them. He grinned as he saw her, and she knew without reading his mind what his news would be. She did not feel triumph, however, only a wry relief.

“They’ve done it!” he called. “They’ve signed the alliance!”

Emerahl looked over her shoulder. Her little boat of silvery wood glowed in the moonlight. Casting her eye over the mooring rope, she nodded to herself, then drew her shawl over her head and made her way along the dock.

She had been travelling for weeks now, sailing up the coast of Toren. Every few days she had moored at small coastal villages to sell cures in exchange for food, clean water and items such as sailcloth, a waterproof sea tawl and fishing line. The people she traded with treated her with friendly respect, though it was clear they thought it peculiar that an old woman might travel this way.

The villages had grown steadily larger and more frequent until it seemed every bay had sprouted a pier or five. This afternoon she had turned into a deeper bay where large ships slowly swayed at anchor. Buildings covered all the land, and the coast was a labyrinth of wooden docks. She had arrived at the city of Porin, capital of Toren.

A length of dried starlight weed had bought a mooring from the corrupt dockmaster. One of the village women had stolen it from her husband to exchange for a cure for a feverish child several months earlier. Emerahl had been saving it for herself and was not pleased to be losing it. The hallucinatory qualities, coupled with euphoria, made it one of her favorite pleasure drugs.

So she was not in a pleasant mood as she strode into the city’s market district. In any large city there was a place where trade never stopped and shops never closed. People, when desperate, sought out cures at any time of the night.

She did not intend to trade with the customers in the market, however. The right to trade was always a jealously guarded commodity in cities. If she had wanted to sell her wares she would have had to make an arrangement with a stallholder to work outside his or her shop. Part of her profit would go toward paying for the privilege of plying her trade. She didn’t have time for that.

Instead, she had a collection of items to sell to cure shops. Some she had already possessed, some she had gathered on the way. There were sacs of venom from yeryer fish to thin the blood, spines of the prickle mat which could be used to apply a shot of anesthetic to a precise location, and antiseptic straps of seaweed. She had added to this a few bags of ground firespice, which had grown in plentiful quantities around the lighthouse, and several potent herbs.

A few items of no medicinal but high monetary value had found their way into her bag. Most were aphrodisiacs. Generally these had no genuine physical effect, but most people became so excited by the thought they were indulging in a “cure” that stirred sexual desire that they mistook their excitement for the effect of the “cure.” Of course, these “cures” came either from some fierce creature, like the teeth of the giant garr she had found washed up on a deserted beach, or they looked like sexual organs, like the dried sea worms, fleshy phallic wemmin flowers and sea bell she’d found tangled in some floating weed. The latter she would consider selling only as a last resort. It was rare and valuable, and no shopkeeper was going to pay a passing traveller what it was truly worth. One day she might be in a better position to barter.

Noise and light drew her to her destination. Large awnings, each hung with lanterns, formed two tunnels along each side of a long street of shops. Musicians added a cheerful note to the voices of the thin crowd of shoppers. Some sellers bellowed out inviting descriptions of their wares. Others made bold promises of reasonable prices and fair deals.

Emerahl bought a loaf of bread, a stick of grilled ner - she was heartily tired of fish - some overpriced fruit and a cup of sweetened, fermented shem milk. As she continued along the street the smells of food were replaced by the acrid smell of smoking herbs and incense. Here she found what she was looking for.

The first shop of cures was large and busy. A counter stretched across the front of the store and jars of many sizes and shapes filled shelves along the back wall. She brought her bag to the counter and waited patiently to be noticed. The seller was a middle-aged bald man with sharp eyes. As soon as he finished selling a dubious cure for footrot to a young soldier, he turned to her.

“What can I help you with, young lady?”

She smiled at his attempt at flattery. “My poor arm aches,” she told him. “So I am hoping to sell some of my bag’s contents.”

His sharp eyes flashed with amusement. “Is that so? And you hope to sell them to me?”

“Yes.” She opened the bag and drew out the jar containing the sacs of yeryer venom. “Would you have a use for these? They’re fresh. I collected them no more than a week ago.”

As she opened the jar, his eyebrows rose. “A week, you say? Perhaps I could spare a few coin for them.” He eyed her bag, which was smelling somewhat fishy. “What else do you have?”

She drew out a few more items, then the bartering began. He was interrupted several times by a younger man, perhaps his son, who eventually disappeared into the back of the shop. Emerahl concentrated on her customer. He was selective, spending long moments in consideration, though she judged she was offering her goods at low prices. He did not meet her eyes, and she found herself wishing she had managed to keep up her skill at sensing emotions.

I’m going to have to regain it, she thought. It will make it easier to adapt to the changes in the language, too. I’d assumed the villagers strange way of speaking was a result of their low background, but it seems Toren speech has changed in general.

The seller had seen only half of the items in her bag now. Growing tired of this man’s slow manner, she decided to pretend this was all she had to sell, and asked for her money.

He slowly counted out coins from a purse, stopping midway when his assistant returned to have a whispered conversation.

“I’d like to get to my bed sometime soon,” Emerahl interrupted. She put her hand on top of the jars he’d agreed to buy and took a half-step back from the counter. “Aren’t my prices good enough for you?”

He raised his hands in a placating gesture. “I’m sorry, lady, but my assistant has a rather delicate and urgent matter to attend to.” He returned to the counter and counted out the rest of the coins. She pushed the jars toward him, swept the coins into her bag and cut his long farewell short.

As she left the shop, she let out a sigh of irritation. Had he been hoping she’d lower her price just to get him to hurry up? Had she looked like she was in a hurry?

Puzzling over this, she wandered into a nearby liquor seller’s and bought a measure of spicewater. Taking a seat in a dark corner, she raised the glass to her lips and looked across the street to the cure-seller’s shop.

She nearly choked as she saw two priests step out of the door. The seller appeared and pointed toward the liquor shop. As the priests headed toward her Emerahl’s heart began to race.

They probably just want a drink, she told herself. But they were looking at everyone in the street. As an old woman passed them, they paused and stared at her intently. No, it’s not a drink they’re looking for.

Suddenly the seller’s behavior made sense: his evading her eyes, his delaying her. His assistant disappearing. The whispered conversation between them.

“... a rather delicate and urgent matter to attend to.”

The matter of an old woman selling cures? Had the shop owner been told to watch for her? I don’t know that for sure, she told herself. This could be a simple coincidence. The priests might be looking for someone else. The fact that she had just been driven from her home by one was making her suspect them all of seeking her.

Coincidence or not, I’m not waiting around to find out. Emerahl opened her bag, pulled out her oiled waterproof sea tawl and shrugged into it. Removing the shawl about her head, she replaced it with a broad-brimmed sailor hat, tucking her hair inside. Then she wrapped her bag in the shawl and put it under her arm.

The priests were only a few strides from the liquor seller’s now. She stepped out of the door, paused to make the sign of the circle with one hand in their direction, then moved away, walking with the rolling, unhurried gait of a sailor.

She waited for them to call out, but only the boasting of the sellers broke the general hubbub of the market. It seemed to take forever for her to reach the end of the street.

Once there, she quickened her pace a little and kept to the shadows.

Am I being pursued? If I am, how could the priests have guessed that I would come to the Porin night market to sell cures?

The answer was clear. If the priest at Corel had travelled up the coast he would have heard of the strange old woman selling cures who sailed alone in a boat. He would have recognized her and alerted priests in towns ahead by telepathy, telling them to watch for an old curer woman passing through. It was sheer luck that she hadn’t been confronted by another priest before now.

But why? These priests couldn’t possibly know who she really was.

Maybe the priest at Corel was curious to know who the cranky old sorceress was who had been living in a remote lighthouse for so long...

Oh. Her stomach sank. If he asked the villagers how long I’d been there, they might have told him generations. That would make him suspect I am immortal. Even if he doesn’t believe it, he’s probably obliged to check.

As she neared the docks, she slowed. Creeping closer, she searched her surroundings. In the distance she could just see her little boat tied up to the pier. Finding a darkened corner, she sat down and waited.

She did not have to wait long. As the dockmaster emerged from his shack she glimpsed the corner of a chair and the back of someone wearing something white with a blue edge.

Goodbye, little friend, she thought at the boat. I hope you find a good owner.

Then, with a pang of regret, she turned away and slipped into the shadows of the city.

The stranger had taken a seat at the back of the room and had spent the last two hours watching the other occupants of the drink shop. Roffin hadn’t liked the look of the man from the moment he had walked in. Too well groomed, he was. Trussed up in a big tawl. A foreigner, with an arrogance to his manner that suggested highborn ways. Roffin didn’t like the way the man watched everyone come and go.

“You lookin‘ at our mystery guest again?” Cemmo murmured.

Roffin turned to regard his companion. Cemmo was a wiry man, one of the youngest of the local fishermen. Roffin grunted quietly.

“His kind don’t belong here.”

“Nope,” Cemmo agreed.

“Should be up at the high-folks’ drink shop.”

“Tha’s right.”

“Someone oughta throw him out.”

“Upta Garmen. He won’t ‘less there’s trouble.”

“Garmen’s got somethin‘ to’ lose if highborn folks take exception. We don’t,” Roffin pointed out.

Cemmo looked away. “True. But... I dunno. Somethin‘ ’bout him looks dangerous.”

“Just his starin‘ gettin’ to you.”

Garmen, the owner of the drink shop, gave the stranger a quick, nervous glance. The man wasn’t drinking much, either, Roffin noted. Cheap, foreign bastard.

As Roffin slammed down his third mug, the stranger turned to stare at him. Roffin stared right back. The man’s eyebrows rose a little. He smiled.

“Well, if nobody else has got the guts.”

Cemmo frowned as Roffin rose, but said nothing; he just slid off his chair and followed, a silent supporter. As Roffin strode toward the stranger, others looked up and nodded in approval.

The stranger watched him come, apparently unconcerned. Roffin leaned over the man, taking full advantage of his bulk.

“You’re in the wrong place,” he told him. “The place for you is on the other side of the road. Uptown.”

A smile thinned the stranger’s mouth.

“I like here,” he said in a deep, strangely accented voice.

Roffin straightened. “We don’t like you here. Go stare at your own kind.”

“I stay.” The man gestured at the seat opposite. “You stay. We drink.”

“You drink elsewhere,” Roffin growled. He reached for the stranger’s shoulders. The man’s eyes narrowed but he did not move. Roffin felt scorching heat envelop his fingers. He snatched his hand away, cursed and stared at his reddened skin.

“What did... ?”

“You go,” the man said, with a note of warning in his voice.

Roffin took a few steps backward. The stranger was a sorcerer. No threats were going to budge him. Cemmo looked at Roffin questioningly. As Roffin glanced around the room, he realized that all the occupants were watching him. Had they seen what the man had done? Probably not. They just saw Roffin backing down to a highborn foreigner. Scowling, he turned on his heel and strode to the door.

“Take my money elsewhere,” he muttered as he left, slamming the door behind him. Once outside, however, he stopped, unsure what to do now. Cemmo hadn’t followed. Long habit made him note the sound of the surf pounding at the base of the cliff below and the whistle of the wind between the buildings. It would be a rough night on the water.

His hand throbbed. He looked down and decided he ought to get someone to see to it.

The priest. Yes, he’ll have a cure for it. Roffin glanced back at the drink shop and smiled. And I’m sure Priest Waiken will want to know there’s a foreign spy in town.

12

Rippling, surging water stretched in all directions. The reflected light of the rising sun formed ribbons of orange on its surface. Occasionally a seabird would soar past, seemingly oblivious to the ship or its occupants.

Looking to the west, Danjin could see a blue smudge of mountains above a thin, dark strip of land. The Sunset Range ran up the west coast of Hania to Mirror Strait, where it plunged into the water and formed a line of small islets leading to the larger Somreyan Islands. According to ancient histories some of those mountains had once spouted fire and ash, but now they were cold and silent.

“Danjin.”

He turned in surprise. Auraya rarely rose before dawn. Her long hair was plaited into a simple tail rather than the usual elaborate style. She was frowning.

“Good morning, Auraya of the White,” he said, making the gesture of the circle. “It is a beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

She glanced at the sunrise but her frown did not fade.

“Yes. It is.” She looked at him. “I will be leaving the ship in the next hour. Would you look after Mischief and ensure Leiard reaches his accommodation safely?”

Looking along the deck, Danjin noted that four crewmen were untying a small boat from where it had been securely tied up on deck for most of the trip.

“Of course,” he replied. She was biting her lip. He reached out but did not quite touch her arm. “Can you tell me what calls you away?”

She turned slowly, her gaze sweeping over the crew. “A little,” she said quietly. “Juran has received several reports of a Pentadrian priest, probably a spy, passing through villages and towns on the north Hanian coast. He has sent Dyara to capture the man and has asked me to approach from the north in order to cut off his escape.”

He nodded, understanding her apprehension. Her training in the use of her Gifts had barely begun. This could be her first sorcerous confrontation.

The gods will protect her, he told himself. And Dyara will probably turn it into a lesson, he added wryly.

Her lips curled into a small smile as she read his mind. “I will return to Jarime with Dyara, so I am leaving you in charge, Danjin Spear.”

“Does Leiard know that you are leaving, or why?”

She shook her head. “Tell him what I have told you, but to the rest say only that I have left to deal with some matter on the coast.”

He nodded. “I will.”

She fell silent, watching the distant coastline. As they drew closer to the land, Danjin fought a growing anxiety. She is one of the Gods’ Chosen, he reminded himself. She can look after herself.

He realized it was not her safety he worried about. She might be forced to kill this spy. It was not a burden he would wish on her any sooner than necessary.

If only Mairae had returned with us, he thought, instead of remaining behind to make arrangements for trade and other delegations to visit under the terms of the alliance. As soon as this thought came he knew it was an unworthy one. Mairae might be fully trained - or so he assumed - but she was as undeserving of the burden of a death on her hands as Auraya was.

The sun crept higher and the coast closer. The dark line Danjin had seen from a distance became a weathered black cliff. A building with several stout towers was visible, built close to the edge of the wall. The boat was lowered into the water. Auraya climbed nimbly down, joining the rowers inside.

Danjin leaned on the railing as he watched them row away. Auraya sat with a straight spine and did not look back.

“Adviser Danjin Spear.”

Danjin turned to find Leiard standing behind him. He wondered how long the Dreamweaver had been there.

“Yes, Dreamweaver Leiard?”

Leiard stepped up to the railing and stared out at the boat. “I gather Auraya will not be joining us for the morning meal.”

Danjin shook his head. “No. She has left to meet Dyara in order to deal with a Pentadrian spy and will return to Jarime by road.”

Leiard nodded. He watched the boat a moment longer, then turned to face Danjin again. The corners of his lips twitched upward. “Then we had best return below before the wafercakes cool.”

Danjin chuckled. Turning from the railing, he followed Leiard below deck.

As the boat neared the cliffs, Auraya wondered how they could possibly land safely. Waves crashed against the black vertical rock face, filling the air with salty spray. It was clear any craft attempting to moor here would be battered to pieces. The rowers heaved and hauled against the oars, propelling the boat around a bluff. A narrow beach of dark sand appeared, riddled with black rocks. Auraya breathed a sigh of relief as the crew headed for it.

Looking up, she made out a zigzagging line of stairs carved into the cliff face, leading to the top. The boat scraped against sand. The men pulled in their oars, jumped over the sides and, as a wave pushed the craft forward, hauled it up the beach.

Auraya rose and stepped out. As her sandals sank into the sand, water welled up and chilled her feet. She thanked the rowers, then left them dragging the boat back into the water as she started toward the base of the stairs.

The stairs were steep, narrow and worn to a dip in the center of each tread. She started climbing and was soon breathing deeply. The higher she climbed, the more disconcerting the drop to the shore became. Wind buffeted her, and she wondered uneasily what would happen to her if she fell. Dyara hadn’t taught her how to survive a fall. Would a defensive shield like the one used to protect her from a magical attack also save her from the impact of landing on the sand or rocks far below?

Perhaps it would be better not to think about it. Auraya resolutely turned her mind from the subject and continued her climb. Her thoughts soon returned to the task Juran had set her. The Pentadrian had been seen lurking about in drinking houses, perhaps hoping to overhear something of interest to his people. His description did not match the powerful sorcerer Rian had fought; he was older and dark-haired. Yet she could not help but feel a little apprehensive.

There can’t be two sorcerers of such strength, Juran had assured her. We might encounter one once a century. This man has been staying in poor accommodations. I doubt his Gifts are as strong as those of a high priest or priestess.

When, at last, she reached the top of the cliff she was surprised to find a small crowd waiting for her. A village surrounded one side of the blackstone building atop the cliff edge.

A priest stepped forward. “Welcome to Caram, Auraya of the White. I am Priest Valem.”

She smiled. “Thank you, Priest Valem.”

He gestured to a well-dressed man with pale eyes and gray in his hair. “This is Borean Stonecutter, our village head.”

She inclined her head to the man, who made the formal two-handed sign of the circle. Others in the small gathering followed suit. She noted that they were plainly dressed. One still wore the scorched apron of a metalworker. Most avoided her eyes, while a few gazed at her in awe. She smiled warmly at them.

“I am also the owner of the watch-house,” Borean said, gesturing to the building on the edge of the cliff. “Priest Valem has arranged for you to stay there.”

“I would be honored to visit your home,” Auraya replied. “I hope I have not caused you inconvenience.”

“It is no trouble,” he replied. He beckoned politely and they began walking toward the house. The priest fell into step on her other side. “I let rooms to travellers from time to time, so I am not completely unprepared for visitors,” Borean assured her. “I cannot promise the comforts of Jarime, however.”

“Neither I, nor my fellow White, lead an extravagant life. Is the house very old?”

She did not have to feign interest as he told her of the long history of the building. It had been built by one of his ancestors many hundreds of years before, as both home and watchtower to warn of a sea invasion.

When they reached the door she paused to thank the villagers for meeting her. Once inside she encouraged Borean to take her through the house, the priest following silently. The interior was rich in artifacts, but not overly luxurious. They finished in one of the squat towers, where he presented a suite of rooms for her.

“I have arranged for local women to serve—”

A crash downstairs interrupted him, then a woman’s scream. The sound of running footsteps followed. Borean and Priest Valem exchanged puzzled glances, then the village head excused himself and moved to the entrance of the suite. As he reached it a man in a brown travelling tawl stepped into the doorway, blocking his exit. His eyes slid over the village head and the priest, and met Auraya’s.

Her skin prickled as he stared at her. There was something strange about him. His skin was pale but his eyes were so black she could not make out his pupils. That was not the source of the strangeness, however. She looked closer and her stomach sank as she realized what it was.

She could not read his mind.

“Who are—?” Borean began.

The man glanced at the village head. Borean tumbled backward. He landed heavily and clutched at his stomach, gasping for breath. Drawing magic, Auraya hastily created a protective barrier across the room between Borean and the sorcerer. The village head scrambled away from the door, still struggling to breathe. She stepped forward to take his arm and help him to his feet, not taking her eyes from the man in the doorway.

“Are you hurt?” she murmured to Borean.

“Just... win - ded,” he said hoarsely.

“Is there another way out of these rooms?”

He nodded.

“Good. Take the priest and go.”

:Juran, she called as the two men left via a side door.

:Yes?

:The Pentadrian spy is here.

:Already?

:Yes. She made the link stronger and let him see the sorcerer through her eyes.

:What can you glean from his mind?

:Nothing. I can’t read his mind. Is this a common Pentadrian skill?

:I don’t know. We have to consider the possibility. I will contact Dyara.

:He sought me out. There is no other reason for him to come into the house. Are you sure he’s a spy? That’s not spy-like behavior.

:He must think you are a priestess of some importance and he intends to force information out of you. I doubt he knows who you are.

“You must be Auraya of the White,” the Pentadrian said.

She stared at him in surprise.

:So much for that theory, she thought at Juran. Where is Dyara?

:An hour’s ride away, Dyara answered. Keep him talking, Auraya, and inside the house. I will be there soon.

“I am Auraya,” she said. “Who are you?”

“I am Kuar, First Voice of the Gods,” he replied.

:Great Chaia! The leader of the Pentadrians? Juran said incredulously. Why would the leader of a cult venture into the north alone? He must be lying.

The Pentadrian started moving toward her, one slow step at a time.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“I came to see you,” the sorcerer replied.

“Me? Why?”

“To learn...” He reached her barrier. As he spread his hands out before it his tawl parted to reveal black clothing and a silver star pendant. She frowned. A spy wouldn’t travel in a strange land with only a tawl to hide the dress of his people.

“What do you wish to learn?” she asked.

A blast of power battered her shield, sending whips of lightning-like magic across its surface. She gasped at the strength of it. The attack stopped and he regarded her coolly.

“How strong you heathens are,” he replied.

She fixed the Pentadrian with what she hoped was a cold stare. “Did that answer your question?”

The sorcerer shrugged. “Not quite.”

Auraya crossed her arms and stared defiantly. Inside she was trembling with shock.

:Juran, she said. I suspect your theory that one powerful sorcerer is born every hundred years is wrong. And I think your spy theory is wrong too.

:I fear you are right on both counts, Juran agreed. He is strong, but so are you.

:But I’ve barely learned more than how to shield myself!

:That’s all you need. When Dyara gets there she will deal with him.

The sorcerer’s eyes narrowed. A second blast of magic set her barrier humming. On either side of the room, stray magic scalded paint and set furnishings ablaze. As the attack increased, she drew more and more magic to resist it.

:By the gods he’s strong!

:Your shield is too large, Juran warned. Draw it in closer to yourself. You’ll find it more efficient.

She did as he advised. With the barrier abruptly gone, the sorcerer’s attack shattered paintings, furniture and windows. She felt a pang of guilt at the destruction.

The attack stopped. She watched the Pentadrian’s face. His eyes were thoughtful. He took another step forward.

“There are much more civilized ways of doing this,” she told him. “We could devise a test of some sort. Perhaps hold annual games. People would come from—”

As a brutally powerful blast battered her shield she put all her concentration into drawing and channelling magic. The man watched her intently, showing no sign of effort as his onslaught grew ever stronger. Then she found she could no longer draw magic fast enough to counter his attack. White light dazzled her as he broke down her defenses. She knew a brief instant of pure agony. Staggering backward, she gasped for air and looked down at herself. She was alive and, to her surprise, unhurt.

:Flee! Juran’s communication was like a shout in her mind. He is stronger. There is nothing more you can do.

The knowledge hit her like a physical blow. The Pentadrian could kill her. She felt a wave of terror and hastily created another shield. Looking up at the sorcerer she saw him smiling broadly. So much for immortality, she found herself thinking. People are going to remember me as the shortest-lived immortal in history! She took a few steps toward the side door and encountered an invisible force.

“No, no,” the Pentadrian said. “You are not leaving. I want to see if you call on your gods. Will they appear? That would be interesting. It would answer many questions.”

:Is there a window behind you? Dyara asked.

:Yes, but if I move toward it he will block me.

:Then you will have to resist him. It will take time for him to break down your defenses again. Use that time to get to the window.

Auraya backed away from the sorcerer. His smile widened and she suspected he thought her afraid of him and was pleased. I am afraid of him! She stepped into a square of light from the shattered window behind her and felt sunlight warm her calves. The sorcerer looked down at her feet and frowned. His gaze flickered to the window and his eyes narrowed.

An invisible force struck her shield. Though she fought it, she did not have the strength to stop herself from being forced backward against the wall. The window was an arm’s length away. The Pentadrian strode forward until he stood before her.

“Where are your gods?” he asked. “I know your strength. It will not take long to defeat you again. Call on your gods.”

The window was so close, but she could not move. The sorcerer shook his head.

“They don’t exist. You are deceivers. You deserve to die.”

He splayed his fingers before her chest. She tried to shrink away, but the wall was hard against her back. If only it were possible to pass through it...

But of course I can! Drawing power, she sent it backward in a great blast. The wall gave way with a deafening crack. She saw the sorcerer’s eyes widen in surprise as she fell away from him. She braced herself for the impact of her shield meeting the ground outside.

But it didn’t.

She continued to fall. As she turned upside down she saw sand and rocks and water rushing toward her.

I must stop!

She felt magic channel through her, answering the command of her mind. The sensation of falling ended in one wrenching jolt. For a moment she was too stunned to think. She sucked in one breath, then two. Slowly, she opened her eyes, not able to remember when she had closed them.

A wall of dark sand lay within arm’s reach.

Not a wall, she corrected, but the beach. Looking around, she saw the cliff wall to her right and the sea to her left. She was floating.

How is that possible?

Thinking back, she considered the thought that had passed through her mind. I wanted to stop. To stop moving.

It was more than that. She had seen herself moving in relation to what was around her. Not specifically the cliff or sea. Everything. The world.

And I did. She shook her head in amazement. And I’m still doing it. Can I make myself move again by willing myself to change position in relation to the world?

She hesitated, afraid that by examining this new Gift she would lose it and drop the rest of the way to the beach. Not a fatal fall, but a disappointing one.

But, she reasoned, if this ability - this Gift - had taken a lot of thought I would have been aware of it from the start. No, this was unlike any Gift she had learned before. This was like learning to walk. Something she didn’t have to think about.

If learning a Gift is like learning to play an instrument, then this is like singing.

If she could move herself, it would be like flying. That thought sent a thrill through her body.

I have to try. Me in relation to the world. I want to turn over and face upward.

She rolled over sideways in three abrupt movements. Above her was the cliff. She thought about moving higher and began to rise. Slowly, then with greater speed, she lifted herself upward. To be vertical would be better, she decided. Slowly she pivoted until she was upright. She passed the edge of the cliff and stopped as she found herself looking down on the watch-house.

Abruptly she remembered the sorcerer and her elation died. Smoke was escaping from the hole she had blasted in the side of the house. Villagers were hauling buckets of water from a well to the building. She felt her stomach knot with fear as she searched for the sorcerer. If he was still there she would have to retreat until Dyara arrived.

Moving over the village, she looked for him in vain. Then she saw a dark figure riding northward on a reyer. She searched for his thoughts and found none. She sighed with relief.

He must have assumed I’d died. And Juran and Dyara must be wondering what happened. She smiled. They’re not going to believe me.

:Juran.

:Auraya? You’re alive. What... ? Where are you?

:Over Caram.

:I don’t understand...

:Neither do I. The gods couldn’t make me stronger, so instead they have given me a new Gift. I can see the sorcerer. He is leaving. Should I follow him? Or meet Dyara?

:Don’t put yourself in danger. Meet Dyara. You must both return.

:We can’t let the sorcerer get away! Dyara protested.

:We must. You are stronger than Auraya, but we don’t know if you are strong enough, and until Auraya has completed her training we should not set her against such dangerous sorcerers - even with assistance. Meet Auraya and return to Jarime.

Auraya surveyed the buildings below. Smoke was no longer curling from the house. As she watched, Borean emerged, and from his gestures she guessed he was telling the villagers the water was no longer needed.

:Where are you, Dyara?

:On the road, not far away now.

:I’ll come south and meet you.

Breaking the link, Auraya willed herself into motion once again.

13

The first thing Leiard noticed when Danjin Spear opened the door to Auraya’s rooms was how pale the adviser was. The man’s fear of heights wasn’t as well suppressed as usual, but added to it was amazement and wonder.

“Dreamweaver Leiard,” Danjin said, a little breathlessly. “Mairae said I should send you to the roof. The stairs will lead you there.”

“Thank you, Danjin Spear.”

Cool air gusted out of the room. Leiard paused and glanced over Danjin’s shoulder to see a pair of workmen standing before a window empty of glass.

So that’s the source of his heightened fear. He’s all too aware that nothing lies between him and the drop outside. But why is the glass missing? Has someone fallen through it? He could sense nothing from the adviser or the men to suggest that.

His view of the room was obscured as Danjin closed the door firmly. Leiard shook his head and began climbing the stairs. The mystery would probably be solved when he spoke to Auraya.

The Herald had returned to Jarime three days ago, and Leiard to the Bakers’ house. News of the signing of the alliance had travelled faster and Tanara had already had a celebratory dinner arranged. She invited other Dreamweavers and sympathetic friends. Not all were as sure as she that this was the beginning of peace between Dreamweavers and Circlians, but all agreed that there had been a marked lessening of harassment of “heathens” in Jarime during the last few months.

Jayim had been silent and thoughtful that evening. Later, he had questioned Leiard on his role. Leiard had sensed that the boy was close to deciding his future. He did not nudge him toward a choice. Jayim needed to sort this out by himself.

This morning a feeling of resolution had imbued the house. Jayim had been tense and quiet, clearly waiting for an appropriate moment to speak. At the end of the morning meal he had asked if Leiard still wanted to teach him. A few words later Leiard had gained himself a pupil.

Tanara had barely enough time to grasp what had transpired when the summons to the White Tower had come. Leiard had left the boy grinning and his mother planning another celebratory meal. Now, as he climbed the stairs to the roof, Leiard asked himself if he was happy with the arrangement. Jayim was intelligent and Gifted. With training and maturity he would make a good Dreamweaver. So why did he feel this lingering regret? Did he crave solitude? Or simply not to be encumbered by a student? Or did he still hope, deep down, that Auraya would come back to him?

I’m a fool if I do.

The end of the staircase appeared. A small door stood half-open, swaying gently. Leiard felt cool air on his face.

As he stepped outside, something swooped in and out of sight just beyond the edge of the Tower. He stopped and frowned. It had been too big to be a bird. He’d had a brief impression of human proportions. Had a Siyee come to Jarime? His heart beat faster at the thought. As far as he knew no Siyee had flown this far before. He hurried toward the railing at the edge of the Tower.

Looking over the edge, he saw the figure clearly. This was no Siyee, but a human of normal proportions. Impossibly, this human - this woman - had no wings. A white circ flared out from her shoulders. She was turning slow loops in midair. As her face turned upward he felt his heart jolt.

Auraya!

He stared at her in disbelief. How is this possible?

With magic, obviously, a voice in his mind replied.

He had never seen it done before. Though plenty of sorcerers had tried, no one had ever achieved it. Until now he’d had no idea it was even possible, but here she was, defying the pull of the earth.

Flying!

He considered what it had cost the Siyee to be able to take to the sky, and suddenly it hurt to watch her. It was not the only pain he felt, but emptiness, as if the last of his hopes were draining out of him. No matter how disillusioned with her life Auraya might become, nothing would ever lure her away from this.

She was grinning widely, all her attention on the acrobatics she was performing, albeit slowly.

“Leiard!” She had noticed him. “Look what I can do!” she called. She turned another loop. Her circ flared and he noticed she was wearing trousers beneath it rather than the usual long tunic. No doubt the latter had proved awkward to fly in - at least with any dignity.

He couldn’t help smiling. The childlike glee in her voice reminded him of the girl she had been. Her gaze shifted past him and her grin relaxed into a smile. She swooped down and he turned to watch as she dropped to the roof.

A priest was walking toward them. The man had a dignified bearing, but wore an expression of friendly concern. There was something familiar about him.

It’s him, the voice in the back of Leiard’s mind said.

Who? Leiard asked. No answer came, but he didn’t need one. This priest’s circ was plain, and there was only one White he hadn’t met.

“Juran,” Auraya said. “This is Dreamweaver Leiard. Leiard, this is Juran of the White.”

A memory flashed into Leiard’s mind of Juran’s face set with determination. With it came a surge of fear. Leiard managed to suppress it. There was no getting out of this meeting. Juran has no reason to harm me, he told himself.

The White frowned, no doubt catching Leiard’s thoughts, but then his face relaxed.

“Dreamweaver Adviser Leiard,” he said. “It is a pleasure to meet you at last. Thank you for your help with the Somreyan alliance. Auraya and Mairae tell me your assistance was invaluable.”

Leiard inclined his head in reply. “It was a pleasure to assist them.” He glanced at Auraya. “And it appears the gods are pleased with Auraya’s efforts.”

Juran smiled. “They could have warned us,” he said ruefully, but with no hint of reproach. His expression became serious again. “Auraya has told me about link memories. She says you have many of Mirar’s.”

Auraya’s smile disappeared. She frowned at Leiard in concern.

“It is so,” Leiard replied. “I have no idea where or from whom I picked them up. It had been many years since I participated in a memory link.”

Juran nodded. “How recent are these memories?”

“They are fragmentary,” Leiard replied truthfully. “It is hard to know what time they relate to. Some are old, as the landmarks within them are not as affected by time. Sometimes it is impossible to tell.”

Juran opened his mouth as if to say more, then shook his head and turned to regard Auraya. “We have much to do today, and I’m sure your adviser would appreciate it if we chose more comfortable surroundings than the Tower roof in which to discuss your time in Somrey.”

“Then perhaps we should meet in your rooms,” she suggested. “I have arranged for a window in mine to be made into a door. It’s a little... drafty.”

Juran’s eyebrows rose. “My rooms, then.” He glanced at Leiard. “Let us delay no longer.” With a polite gesture, he indicated that Leiard should walk beside him back to the stairway door.

As he fell into step beside the White’s leader, Leiard felt a nagging misgiving. Do not trust him, the other voice in his mind whispered. Taking a deep breath, Leiard did his best to ignore it. The sooner he started teaching Jayim to link, and so could assert his own identity on a regular basis, the better.

* * *

This time the ritual words Juran recited at the beginning of the meeting in the Altar stirred gratitude as well as loyalty in Auraya. The two short phrases she contributed were spoken with more feeling than ever before.

“We thank you.”

Her thanks now included the extraordinary Gift the gods had given her. Juran had called her to the roof early, to see if he could master the skill. Though she explained it as clearly as she could, and even projected her understanding of it to him mentally, he could not emulate her.

“Perhaps I should throw myself off the Tower,” he had murmured once. As he looked over the railing to the ground, he had shuddered. “No, I think some risks are not worth taking. It would not be a pleasant way to discover this is a Gift meant solely for you.”

Which was an interesting possibility. Would the others be given their own unique Gifts? Perhaps the gods would explain today...

“Guide us.”

At these words her thoughts shifted to the other reason they had gathered here and her mood darkened. They were to discuss her encounter with the Pentadrian sorcerer.

The brief ritual over, Juran regarded the other White soberly.

“Two black sorcerers,” he said. “Both Pentadrians. Both powerful. One who claimed to be Kuar, the leader of their cult. If he is their leader, why did he come here alone? Why did the other Pentadrian come? Are they a danger to Northern Ithania?” He paused and looked at each of them expectantly.

“The answer to your last question is clear,” Dyara said. “This man called Kuar bested Auraya in a plain battle of strength. She is stronger than Rian and Mairae. That means he is a danger to at least three of us. The first Pentadrian showed us how dangerous they are to the people of Northern Ithania.”

“Kuar did not kill ordinary people,” Juran reminded her. “We should not judge all Pentadrians by the actions of the first sorcerer we encountered. That one may have been abusing his power while outside the control of his superiors.”

Dyara frowned and nodded. “True.”

“We can be sure they regard us with contempt,” Rian said. “Both called us heathens.”

“Yes,” Auraya agreed. “Kuar urged me to call on the gods, as if he didn’t believe they would protect me.”

:It’s obvious that religion is their main grudge against us, and that they are dangerous, Mairae said. Even through the telepathic link Auraya could sense the woman’s impatience.

:I want to know what they’re capable of, and if they’re planning any further attacks.

“We must send more spies,” Dyara said.

Juran nodded. “We have some there, but it is time to increase their number. We need more priests to speed communication.”

“They don’t like Circlian priests,” Rian warned. “Every priest or priestess who has travelled to Southern Ithania has been sent home.”

“Then the ones we send now will adopt a disguise.”

“If they are discovered, they will be killed.”

Juran grimaced. “That is the risk we must take. Find volunteers among the priests and priestesses and make sure they are well informed. I won’t send anyone who does not choose to face such danger.”

Rian nodded. “I will.”

Juran rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Kuar did not attract attention to himself initially. Not in the way the first Pentadrian sorcerer did. Both appeared to be testing our defenses and strength. I hope they found us too powerful a people to consider any aggressive move.” He sighed. “It is clear that none of us should face one of these Pentadrian sorcerers alone. We will have to keep our own movements less public, so only a trusted few know when one of us is separated from the others.” He frowned. “Let’s hope these two do not return together.”

Auraya shuddered at the thought, earning herself a sympathetic look from Dyara. The woman’s attitude toward Auraya had changed markedly. She was less critical, and almost companionable. Auraya hoped it was her success in Somrey that had brought this about, but suspected that Dyara was simply being supportive in case Auraya was upset by her confrontation with Kuar.

“Where is Kuar now?” Dyara asked.

“He was seen travelling north for a day after Auraya’s encounter, then, like the previous sorcerer, he stole a boat.”

“What of this sorceress seen in Toren?” Rian asked.

Juran shook his head. “She is no Pentadrian. From the reports I’ve had, she has been living alone in an old lighthouse, selling cures to the locals. The village head took exception to this and called on a priest to drive her out, but she fled before he arrived. The priest would have left it at that, but the stories about the woman worried him. The villagers claim she has been there for over a hundred years. He is worried she might be a Wild.”

“An old woman? Could she be The Hag?” Rian asked.

Juran shrugged. “People can live longer than a century, and the tales of the past may be exaggerated with each generation. We are obliged to check all reports of Wilds, however, so I have given the priest the task of finding her.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Auraya asked. “If she is a Wild she would be more powerful than he.”

Juran nodded. “That is a risk the priest has chosen to take. We certainly don’t have the time to hunt for her.” He shook his head. “If he confirms that she is, we will...”

His voice faded to silence and they all looked around in surprise as the five sides of the Altar began to unfold. Slowly they rose to their feet.

“What does this mean?” Auraya asked.

“The gods are here,” Rian breathed, his eyes bright with religious fervor. Footsteps suddenly echoed in the vast Dome.

Dyara rolled her eyes. “If they are, they’ve taken a humble form today. No, we are about to be interrupted, and it must be important.” She nodded and looked pointedly past Rian’s shoulder. As one they turned to see a high priest hurrying toward them.

“Forgive the intrusion,” he gasped as he reached the dais. “Two ambassadors have just arrived.”

“What land are they from?” Juran asked.

“From... from Si.”

The Siyee! Auraya drew in a quick breath and heard Dyara make a small noise of surprise. Juran glanced at her, one eyebrow raised, then stepped away from his chair.

“Then we had best meet them,” he said.

They left the Altar and hurried toward the edge of the Dome. Hundreds of priests and priestesses had gathered outside to stare upward. Following their gaze, Auraya felt her heart leap as she saw the tiny winged shapes circling the Tower.

“They probably don’t know we’re down here,” Dyara said. “Should we greet them at the top of the Tower?”

Auraya smiled. “I could save you the trouble.”

Dyara looked at Auraya, her expression unreadable. Juran chuckled.

“Every moment the gods’ intent becomes clearer,” he murmured. “Go, Auraya. Greet them on their own ground, so to speak.”

Auraya concentrated on the sense of the world around her and her position in relation to it. Drawing magic, she moved herself upward, increasing her speed until the wall of the Tower rushed past. In the windows she glimpsed faces. The Siyee did not notice her approach until she was almost upon them. Startled, they swooped away.

Slowing to a stop, she held herself suspended in the air and watched as they began to circle her at a distance. From this close she could see that all she’d been told of the Siyee was wrong. Except what Leiard had told her, she corrected herself.

They looked like children. It was not just their small size though, but that their heads seemed large in proportion to their bodies. Their chests were broad but their arms were wiry and muscular. Their wings were not feathered or attached to their backs, as legend told. Their arms were their wings: the bones of their fingers were elongated and formed the framework for a translucent membrane that stretched from fingertip to torso.

The armholes of the vests they wore extended to their hips to allow room for their wings. Slim-fitting trousers made of the same rough cloth as their vests covered their lower halves, and thin straps bound the cloth close to their legs.

As the two circled closer, she noted finer details. The last three fingers of each hand formed the wings, leaving the forefinger and thumb free. She found herself unable to decide if they were beautiful or ugly. Their angular, large-eyed faces were exquisitely fine, but their thinness and featherless wings did not live up to the depictions of them in scrolls and paintings. Yet they circled her with an easy grace that she found fascinating.

“Welcome to Jarime, ambassadors of Siyee,” she called. “I am Auraya of the White.”

The Siyee whistled to each other, adding a spoken, high-pitched word here and there. Reading their minds, she saw that this was their method of speech.

“She must be one of the Gods’ Chosen,” one of the Siyee said.

“Must be,” the other replied. “How else could she be standing on air?”

“Nothing in their message told of their ability to... to...”

“Defy the pull of the earth?” the other suggested.

She concentrated on their thoughts, finding in them the words she needed. Mimicking their speech was more difficult, but as she repeated her greeting they circled closer.

“I am Tireel of the Green Lake tribe,” one of the Siyee said. “My companion is Zeeriz of the Fork River tribe. We have flown long and far to speak to the Gods’ Chosen.”

“We have been sent by our Speakers to discuss the alliance you have proposed,” the other added.

Auraya nodded and searched their minds for words.

“The other Gods’ Chosen wait below. Will you come down and meet them?”

The two Siyee exchanged glances, then nodded. As she descended, they followed, still circling. She understood that they could not stop in midair as she could. They relied on this continual gliding to keep them aloft. She noted the subtle shifts in their posture as they compensated for changes in the wind. When she neared the ground they swooped away toward a clear area of pavement to land. She followed.

As her feet touched the ground, Juran, Rian and Dyara came forward. The Siyee eyed the crowd of priests and priestesses nervously.

“Do not fear,” Auraya told them. “They are just surprised to see you. They will not harm you.”

The Siyees’ attention shifted to the other White. Tireel stepped forward.

“We have come to discuss alliance,” he said simply.

“You have flown far,” Juran replied, his voice softening as he spoke their strange language. “Would you like to rest and eat first? We have rooms in the Tower for guests.” The two Siyee looked up at the building dubiously. “Or if that is unsuitable a cloth house could be made in the gardens,” Juran added.

The Siyee exchanged a few soft whistles, then Tireel nodded. “We will accept your rooms in the Tower,” he replied.

Juran nodded in reply. “Then I shall escort you inside and see to your comfort. If it is acceptable to you, we will meet to discuss the alliance tomorrow.”

“That is acceptable.”

As Juran ushered them toward the Tower, Auraya realized Dyara was watching her.

“Well, that was nicely arranged.”

Auraya frowned. “How so?”

“You gain the ability to fly a few days before the sky people arrive.”

“And you think that was my doing?”

“Not at all,” Dyara smiled. “The gods are rarely coy about their intentions. That’s where we have the advantage over these Pentadrians. We don’t have to invent mysterious signs or complicated deceptions to convince our people of their existence.”

14

The bare stone slopes of the Open were bathed in orange light. As the sun set, fires were lit at the center of the clearing in a circular pattern. Snatches of song, beating of drums and the constant whistling calls of the Siyee filled the air.

All these effects combined to create an atmosphere of anticipation and festivity. Tryss felt a twinge of excitement as he surveyed the scene. Siyee of all ages were dressed in their finest. Bright colors and patterns had been painted on sun-bronzed skin. Jewelry adorned both men and women. Every face was strange and wondrous, for all were wearing masks.

As Tryss landed beside his father, he gazed around in admiration. As always, the variety and workmanship of the masks was amazing. There were animal masks, insect masks and flower masks; masks adorned with patterns and masks covered in symbols. He gasped as he saw one carefully carved to represent a Siyee with wings outstretched, smiled at a man whose head had been “replaced” by a large hand, then laughed aloud at a woman whose mask was an enormous ear.

Girls hurried past, giggling, their masks made entirely of feathers. An old man hobbled in the other direction, his gray hair streaming out from beneath a worn representation of a fish head. Two small boys narrowly missed Tryss’s legs as they hurtled past, one face hidden by a sun, the other half-covered by a crescent moon.

As Tryss followed his father to their usual place in the great circle, he put a hand up to straighten his own mask. It seemed bland and foolish next to some that he had seen - simply a repainted autumn-leaf design from a trei-trei festival a few years before. He’d had no time to make a new one, with all his spare time dedicated to practicing using his new harness and blowpipes.

Drilli was pleased with his progress, though he still missed his targets as often as he hit them. She had assured him that people didn’t expect archers to hit their target every time, so they wouldn’t expect him to either. He wasn’t so sure. When the time came to demonstrate his invention, he needed to dazzle and impress. He needed to prove that this method was better than hunting with a bow from the ground or setting traps.

He sighed. Tonight he wanted to forget all that. The summer trei-trei, held late in the season, was the last festive Gathering before the long winter began; a last opportunity for feasting and wasting energy in acrobatic flying.

And this year he had a partner.

As Tryss’s parents took their places among their tribe, two voices rose above the general chatter.

“... seen it before, haven’t you?”

“Yes. Three years ago, I think. A bit of fresh paint doesn’t make an old mask look good again, does it? And an autumn leaf in summer! Can’t even get the season right.”

Tryss decided it would be better to pretend he hadn’t heard the voices, but his mother looked in their direction.

“You’re not getting along with your cousins anymore, are you?”

She sounded concerned. Tryss shrugged.

“They’re not getting along with me,” he replied. “Not since I got sick of them making me look stupid so they looked better, anyway,” he added quietly.

Her eyebrows rose. “So that’s why. I thought it was something else.”

He frowned at her, but her attention had shifted elsewhere. Her eyes flicked back to him, then she nodded meaningfully and looked away again. Following her gaze, he saw a butterfly-faced girl and knew instantly that it was Drilli. No other girl walked the way she did, he mused. Confident, but not showy. Her gracefulness was completely unselfconscious.

Looking at his mother again, he considered her insinuation that Drilli was the reason for his cousins’ taunting. She was probably right. They were jealous. They didn’t need to be. Drilli liked him and helped him with his inventions, but he had no idea if she thought he was anything more than a friend.

Except, well, she had lured him into asking her to be his partner tonight, and girls didn’t do that unless they were interested in being more than friends with a boy.

The last rays of the sun had disappeared now. As Drilli and her family took their places the threads of music from instruments about the circle began to synchronize. All chatter ended. The Speaker of another tribe stepped into the circle, dressed in the traditional bright garb of the Patternmaker. He would direct the festivities, choose the order of flight patterns, and award prizes.

“For centuries since Huan declared her work complete and that we were ready to govern ourselves, we have come together every winter and summer to celebrate and give thanks,” he called. “We hone our skills and test our abilities so that she will look upon us and be proud. In spring we celebrate the oldest and youngest of us. In summer we rejoice in the partnership of man and woman, be they newly matched or familiar companions.” He raised his arms. “So let the couples begin the trei-trei!”

As musicians began a lively old tune, Tryss’s parents exchanged a smile and took off their masks. They ran forward, leapt into the air and joined the other couples wheeling in the traditional moves of the pattern. Turning away, Tryss looked toward Drilli’s tribe. She was watching him expectantly.

He started toward her, but paused as two familiar figures approached her from either side. Her smile turned to a frown as Ziss grabbed her wrist.

Her words were lost in the hubbub of voices around her, but the shake of her head made her meaning clear. Ziss scowled, but didn’t let her go. She turned abruptly to stare at Trinn, standing on her other side, and her expression became angry. She shook off Ziss’s hand, then stalked away.

Tryss noted that her father was watching her closely. His frown deepened as she joined Tryss.

Is that disapproval? he wondered.

“Tryss,” she said. “You weren’t going to leave me to fend off your cousins by myself, were you?”

He smiled. “You’re quite capable of defending yourself, Drilli.”

“It’s nice that you think so, but it would have been much more flattering if you had gallantly come to my rescue,” she huffed.

“Then give me enough time to get there before dealing with them yourself,” he retorted.

The music changed and she looked up at the fliers above, her eyes shining with eagerness.

“I would be honored if you would fly with me,” he said, the formal words sounding awkward.

She grinned, then took off her mask. He removed his and laid it next to hers on the ground. As she turned to face the circle, Tryss glanced back at his cousins. Both glowered at him.

Then he and Drilli were running. They moved apart and sprang into the air. He felt the heat of a fire add to the lift beneath his wings. It carried him upward, Drilli at his side. In a moment they had found a place among the couples, following the simple movements of an uncomplicated public pattern.

He had flown patterns many times before, but not like this. In early years he had flown with his mother, carefully following her every move. Later, with younger cousins, he had needed to direct them. Drilli did not direct or follow. He could read her slightest change of posture and know what she wanted or expected to do, and she responded to him the same way. It was both exciting and calming, liberating and hypnotic.

They stayed aloft for pattern after pattern, focused only on each other whether the music was lively or slow. He found he could manage complex patterns he had never bothered to attempt before. Finally the music ended and they descended to the ground to watch as hoops and poles were set up for the acrobatic tests. Soon Siyee were swooping about, gaining cheers from those watching.

During one of the louder rounds of cheering, Drilli leaned close.

“Let’s slip away,” she whispered.

He looked at her in surprise. Taking his hand, she slowly led the way through the crowd toward the dark forest at the edge of the Open. They stopped now and then, sometimes to watch, once to talk to an old friend, then, after a long, careful examination of all around them, she bent close again.

“You walk uphill into the forest for fifty steps then stop and wait. I’ll count to a hundred then follow.”

He nodded. Glancing around to make sure nobody was watching, he waited until one of the acrobats started an intricate move before striding away into the forest. It was dark in the trees. The immense trunks had a sinister presence that he had never noticed during the day. He could not guess why: the Siyee had lived here without doing them harm for nearly three centuries.

Realizing he had lost count of his steps, he stopped. After a while he heard soft movement. As a feminine shadow appeared and he recognized Drilli’s walk he sighed with relief.

“I think your cousins saw us leave,” she told him.

He turned and cursed as he saw the pair hurrying through the forest edge toward them.

“I bet they’ve been watching us the whole night.”

“Fools,” she murmured. “Anyone who thinks they can win a girl over by being cruel to others is stupid. Follow me. Try not to make any noise.”

They crept through the forest. In the dark it was impossible to avoid stepping on twigs or dry leaves, but the ground had been cleared and smoothed into paths by many years of traffic. Tryss concentrated on following her and on their pursuit, so when she stopped it took a moment to realize where they were.

At the end of the path was a large bower. The walls glowed from a light within.

“That’s the Speakers’ Bower!” he exclaimed. “We’re not supposed to come here.”

“Shhh!” She put a finger to her lips and looked over his shoulder. “They won’t dare follow us. And nobody will be at the bower. They’re all at the festival.”

“Then why’s there light inside?”

“I don’t know. One of the Speakers probably left a lantern burning, to guide—”

Tryss froze as three figures appeared from the trees to one side and strode toward the bower. The newcomers did not look in their direction, to his relief, but marched up to the bower and went inside. The light within threw their distorted shadows up against the walls.

Drilli was breathing faster now. She turned to look in the direction his cousins had been approaching from, then abruptly crept closer to the bower and crouched down at the base of one of the huge old trees.

“If your cousins find us they’ll turn us in,” she told him. “Better we hide here and risk discovery by the Speakers.”

She looked toward the bower again. Voices could be heard now.

“We were attacked,” a man said darkly. “But not by men. By birds.”

“Birds?” Tryss recognized Speaker Sirri’s voice.

“Yes. There were maybe twenty of them. They came out of the treetops as one.”

“What kind of birds?”

“None I’ve ever seen before. Like a large black kiri.”

“Very large,” a third voice added. “Their wingspan was almost equal to ours.”

“Truly?”

“Yes.”

“What harm did they do?”

“They tore at us with beaks and claws. We all have scratches,” the first visitor said grimly. “Niril lost an eye, Liriss lost both. Half of us have torn wing membranes, and both Virri and Dillir may never fly again.”

Silence followed this.

“This is terrible,” Sirri replied with genuine distress. “What did you do then? How did you escape them?”

“We didn’t. They drove us to the ground. We tried to shoot at them but they scattered as soon as they saw us take our bows, as if they understood what they were for.” The speaker paused. “We walked for a time, then those of us who could fly did so, keeping low and among the treetops in the hopes that we could land and fight if another attack came.”

There was a sigh. “We do not need another danger to add to those we already face.”

“I have never heard of these birds before. Most likely they are an invading species. We should eliminate them, before they breed into numbers that threaten us all.”

“I agree. We need to warn all tribes and—”

“There is something else,” the third man interrupted. “My brother here believes I was imagining things, but I am sure I saw a landwalker.”

“A landwalker?”

“Yes. I saw her as we left. She was watching us, and the birds were gathered around her.”

“I understand why your brother doubts. Landwalkers have never ventured that far into the mountains before. What did this woman look like?”

“Dark skin. Black clothing. That is all I can tell you. I only caught a glimpse of her.”

“This is strange. I must consider what you have told me. Is there anything else I should know?”

“No.”

“Then I will see you back to your tribe.”

The distorted shadows shifted to one side of the bower, then three figures stepped outside. Tryss watched them stride away, his heart pounding.

“I don’t think we were supposed to hear that,” he whispered.

“No,” Drilli replied. “At least they didn’t see us.”

“No.”

“We should go back.”

But he was suddenly conscious of how close she was. He did not want to move away, and she was making no move to do so either. He could feel the warmth radiating from her skin, and smell her sweat mingled with a distinctly female scent.

She shifted closer.

“Tryss?”

Her voice was tentative and questioning, and somehow he knew no question would follow. His name was the question.

“Drilli?” he murmured.

He could barely see her in the darkness - just her jaw outlined by starlight. Slowly, he leaned forward.

Her lips brushed his. He felt a shock of exhilaration, then her mouth closed over his and he felt heat rush through his blood. Two thoughts flashed through his mind.

She wants me.

My cousins are going to be furious!

He didn’t care about his cousins. She wanted him. There was no mistaking that. This was no chaste kiss of a friend. Her hands gripped his shoulders. He slipped his arms under her wing membranes and caught her waist. She drew back slightly.

“Promise me something,” she breathed.

All he could see were stars reflected in her eyes. “Anything.”

“Promise me you’ll show the Speakers your harness at the next Gathering.”

He hesitated at the sudden change of subject. “My harness... ?”

“Yes.” She paused. “You’re surprised.”

“It was far from my thoughts,” he admitted.

She laughed quietly. “Did I actually manage to get your full attention for once?”

He pulled her closer. As he kissed her again, her mouth opened. She mouthed his lips gently, sending shivers of pleasure down his spine. He spread his fingers out over her back, feeling the deliciously neat curve of her spine. As she nibbled at his lower lip he ran a finger down the seam of her clothes, where her vest allowed the membrane of her wings to escape. He felt her stiffen in surprise, then relax and lean against him, her breasts firm and warm against his chest.

This is just too good, he thought wryly. Sliding his hands under the vest, he sighed as he felt the bare, silky skin of her back. He felt her hands follow the same course under his clothes, running from the base of his neck down to - he chuckled in surprise as she squeezed his buttocks. But as he moved to do the same, she pulled away. The sound of their breathing was loud. She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“We have to go back.”

He looked away, disappointed but knowing she was right. His cousins, annoyed at losing their quarry in the forest, would return to their parents and report what they’d seen. They didn’t see everything, he thought smugly.

“Promise me we’ll do this again,” he said, the words coming out before he could consider them.

She chuckled. “Only if you promise me you’ll show the Speakers the harness.”

He let out a long breath, then nodded. “I promise.”

“That... ?”

“I’ll show the Speakers the harness.”

“At the next Gathering?”

“Yes. Unless a better opportunity comes.”

“I suppose that’s reasonable,” she said.

They stood in silence for several heartbeats. He found himself remembering the feel of her skin under his hands. He longed to touch her again.

She sighed. “Do you think you could find your way back on your own?”

“No.”

She laughed. “Liar. Of course you can. I think it would be better if we returned from different directions. I’m going to go around the other side of the Open.”

“That’s a long way. Would it be that bad if people saw us together?”

“My father doesn’t want me to marry outside the tribe.” She paused. “Not that I’m asking you to marry me. But he doesn’t like me talking to you.”

He stared at her and felt the night turn sour.

She stepped close. “Don’t worry,” she said lightly. “I’ll change his mind.” She leaned forward and kissed him firmly. Then she slipped out of his grasp. He caught the flash of her teeth in the light from the bower before she turned and hurried away.

Emerahl had learned long ago that the easiest method of finding the secret ways of a city was to befriend the youngest and poorest residents. The grubby, cunning children of the streets could tell you more about its underside than the adults who ruled it. They knew how to be invisible and their loyalty could be bought cheaply.

She had sought them out the day after her narrow escape in the market. Finding a small square in the poorer quarter of the city she spent a few hours watching and listening to the activities around her. The locals weren’t fools, and she only observed two successful pocket-picking attempts.

When one of the boys slouched past her, she met his eyes squarely.

“That’s a nasty cough you’ve got there,” she said. “Better lose it before the weather gets cold.”

The boy slowed and stared at her suspiciously, taking in her well-worn but mostly clean clothes.

“What you care?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

He stopped, his eyes narrowing. “If you did, you’d give me some coin.”

She smiled. “And what would you do with it?”

“Buy food - for m’self and m‘ sis.” He paused. “She got the cough worse than me.”

“How about I buy the food for you?” she suggested.

He did not answer. She looked away. “Only way you’ll get anything out of me.”

“All right. But no weird stuff. I’m not going anywhere with you but the market.”

So she followed him to the local, smaller market and bought him some fruit and bread, and treated them both to thin pastry pockets full of freshly grilled meat. She noted him slipping the last few bites into a pocket, and guessed his story of a sister was true.

“For that cough,” she said, “you and your sister need a bit of this.” She purchased some decongestant from a herbalist after smelling it critically to see if it did contain the herbs it claimed to. “A spoonful of this three times a day. No more, or you’ll poison yourselves.”

He stared at her as he took the bottle. “Thanks.”

“Now, you can do me a small favor in return.” He scowled. “Don’t worry. No weird stuff. I just want some advice. I need a place to stay for a few days. Somewhere cheap. And quiet, if you know what I mean.”

That night she found herself the guest of a small gang of children living in the basement of a burned-out house on the outskirts of the poor quarter. She found that Rayo, the boy she had helped, did have a sister ill with a serious chest infection, so she brought out her own cures to treat the illness more aggressively.

It did not take long for news of the priests’ search for an old healer woman to reach the children. They confronted her with the news and their suspicions the next day.

“The city’s all stirred up. The priests are looking for a sor’sress,” a younger boy, Tiro, said.

“An old woman. Like you,” a girl, Gae, added.

Emerahl grunted. “So I heard. Priests think every old woman is a sorceress, especially if she knows a bit about herbs and things.” She pointed a bony finger at them. “They’re just jealous, you see, because we know more than they do about cures.”

“But that’s stupid,” Rayo said. “You’re old. You’ll be dead soon.”

She looked at the boy reproachfully. “Thanks for reminding me.” Then she sighed. “It is stupid. Like you said, what can we do, eh? Nothing but put up with them roughing us up.”

“They done that to you?” Tiro asked.

She sighed and nodded, pointing at a rip in the seam of her tawl. “Chose a fine time to get turned out of my house, didn’t I?”

“Then you not the sor’sress. You safe,” Gae assured her.

Emerahl looked at the girl sadly. “Depends if they find what they’re looking for. If they don’t, they’ll just keep hassling us. Or they might take someone and put the blame on her rather than admit they lost the one they’re after.”

“We’re not going to let that happen,” Rayo told her firmly.

She smiled. “You’re all too good to me, letting me stay here.”

The children didn’t seem to mind that the few days she had said she would stay turned into a week, then two. She gave them things of hers to sell. They brought back food and even a little cheap firewater, and occasionally spied on the priests so she would know when the search ended.

“I o’erheard two of ‘em,” Tiro told her breathlessly one night. “They were talking of the higher priest who d’recting the search. Ikaro’s his name. They said he c’municates with the gods, and he been giv’n the ’bility to read minds.”

“So they haven’t found her yet?” she asked.

“Don’t think so.”

Emerahl sighed, but her dismay was more to do with the news of her pursuer’s abilities.

Of course, the people Tiro had overheard might be so in awe of their superior that they believed any rumor that came their way. However, she could not take the risk that it was true. Any priest who tried to read her mind would see nothing. It took considerable magical ability to master the Gift of hiding one’s mind. He might not know this, but she wasn’t intending to find out.

According to the children, anyone leaving the city by boat, tarn, platten or foot was being watched by priests. Even the secret ways of the underworld were being watched. All old women were being taken to the high priest to be examined. The Circlians were putting a lot of effort into finding her. If they had guessed who she was, the gods would be peering through every priest’s eyes, looking for her. And if they found her...

She shivered. They’ll kill me, just as they killed Mirar, The Oracle and The Farmer, and probably The Twins and The Gull, though I never heard reports of their deaths.

It was tempting to simply stay put and wait it out. The priests couldn’t keep this up forever. They would try a few other ploys before they gave up, however. She expected a reward would be offered soon. When that happened she could no longer be sure of the children’s loyalty. They were friendly, but they were not stupid. If the price was big enough she knew they would sell her with barely a second thought. She was, after all, just an old woman.

Nobody was safe company now. What she ought to do was change her appearance, and it would have to be more than a change of clothing and hair color. She needed something much more dramatic.

Such a change was not beyond her abilities, but the thought filled her with trepidation. It had been a long time since she’d practiced this Gift. A lot could go wrong. She needed time - perhaps a few days - in which to make the change, and she must not be interrupted as she worked.

The children could not know, of course. It would be better if they never saw her new form - or even knew she had adopted one. Getting away from them would not be easy, however. Even if she came up with a plausible excuse, where was she to go?

But perhaps she would not have to leave. A lot of her problems would be solved if they believed that she had died.

15

Danjin had spent most of the last two weeks in a constant state of awe and wonder. He was not the only person to experience this, though he believed he was one of the few who had managed to keep their wits despite everything that had happened. Most of the priests either walked about in a daze or could be heard gushing out praise for the gods or speculating on what wonders might still be in store for them all.

As his platten bore him through the archway into the Temple, Danjin considered the events that had brought this about.

The first revelation had been Auraya’s return. Neither ship nor platten had brought her back to the city. Instead, she had flown into the Temple like a great white wingless bird. Dyara’s arrival had been considerably quieter, he had been told by a servant. She had returned on the Bearer she had ridden out on, looking “as if she had a lot to think about.”

The second revelation had been less pleasant. Auraya had told Danjin of her confrontation with the Pentadrian sorcerer and that the discovery of her new Gift came only as a result of her defeat. This information was to remain a secret, however. The White did not want to cause unnecessary fear among the people by making it known that the Pentadrians had a sorcerer of such strength he had overcome one of the White.

Danjin hadn’t grown used to the idea that the woman he worked for could perform aerobatics that even birds could not achieve. After the Siyee ambassadors arrived he noticed a subtle change in the other White’s behavior toward Auraya, as if the appearance of the Siyee explained why she had been given this new power.

It makes sense, I suppose, he thought. Does that mean I will be accompanying her on a journey to Si?

Since then Danjin had met with Auraya only once or twice a day. He had no knowledge of the sky people, and couldn’t speak their language, and it had come as a blow to realize he was of no use to her at the moment. It had been obvious the few times he had observed her with them that she was fascinated by these winged people. And the Siyee seemed equally captivated by her.

Little wonder, he thought. She has more in common with them than anyone else here.

The platten drew closer to the Temple buildings. He noted that the few priests about at this early hour were engaged in the new unofficial pastime, which he had dubbed sky-gazing. Most were looking at the Tower, however. It had not taken long for people to learn that a window in Auraya’s room had been replaced with a glass door so she and her Siyee friends didn’t need to ascend to the top of the building when they wanted a little aerobatic exercise. Seeing her emerge often brought cheers from her audience.

Thinking of the window-door in her rooms, Danjin shivered. Perhaps it was just as well she didn’t need him any more.

Of course she still does, he told himself. But it didn’t help. Here was an opportunity to learn about one of the few peoples he knew nothing of, but he couldn’t take advantage of it because she hadn’t included him in her discussions with them.

The platten stopped. He stepped off and thanked the driver. Priests nodded politely at him as he strode inside the Tower. He made the gesture of the circle in reply. The cage was resting at the base of the stairwell. He concentrated on his breathing as it bore him upward, keeping his mind from imagining the drop below it by recalling a verse of poetry he’d memorized, then translating it into Dunwayan. Arriving outside Auraya’s rooms, he stepped out and knocked on her door.

She answered it herself, and greeted him with a smile. Not quite the broad grin she had worn so often in the last two weeks, but a more subdued expression. He wondered what had tempered her recent high spirits.

“Come in,” she said, directing him to a chair. As she sat down he cast a quick look at the windows. To his relief, the glass “door” was closed.

“I know you’re disappointed that you haven’t seen more of the Siyee ambassadors,” she told him. “They may appear bold and confident, but in truth they find us landwalkers intimidating - especially as most of their experiences of us are as invaders and murderers. I’ve tried to keep the number of landwalkers around them to a minimum.”

As she spoke, a furry bundle on a nearby chair uncurled. Mischief blinked sleepily at them, then stretched, crept onto Auraya’s lap and curled up again. Auraya didn’t appear to notice.

“I was hoping to make it up to you by bringing you along, but I’m afraid that isn’t going to be possible now.”

“Bringing me along?”

A now-familiar sparkle entered her gaze. “To Si. To enter into negotiations for an alliance. Juran sent them a proposal months ago, and they want one of us to return with them to Si.” Her smile faded. “But the journey would take months, and involves crossing difficult terrain. You would have to climb mountains to get there, Danjin. Juran has decided that I must go alone.”

“Ah.” Danjin knew he would not be able to hide his dismay from her, so he did not bother keeping it from his face. “You’re right,” he told her. “I am disappointed. I am also concerned. In Somrey you had myself, Mairae and Dreamweaver Leiard to advise you. You are still too inexperienced, if you’ll forgive my frankness, to be tackling an alliance on your own. Can’t this wait?”

She shook her head. “We need allies, Danjin. More than lone sorcerers may venture north from the southern continent in the future. However, I will not begin negotiations with the Siyee immediately. I will spend a few months learning all I can about them first.”

“Then, perhaps if I left now I would arrive in time to help you negotiate.”

“No, Danjin,” she said firmly. “I will need you here.”

She reached under her circ, then leaned forward and opened her palm. On it rested a white ring. A priest’s ring. Danjin stared at it in surprise.

“You honor me beyond what I deserve,” he said. “But I do not wish to join—”

“It’s not a priest’s ring.” She smiled. “It is what we call a ‘link ring.’ Priests, as you know, can communicate with each other through their rings. They can because they are Gifted, and their rings are simple things. This,” she held the white band, “is more refined and took some time to make. If I need to communicate with you I can, through this. But that is all that it can do. It cannot link you with anyone else.” She held it out to him. “Wear this, and I will be able to speak to you from Si. Don’t lose it. I only have the one.”

He took the ring and held it up. It was plain and smooth, and he could not guess what it was made of. He slipped it onto his finger, then lifted his eyes to meet hers.

“There is one other matter that bothers me,” he told her.

She smiled and leaned back in her chair. “Your concern for me is heartening, Danjin, but I will be in less danger from Pentadrians in Si than anywhere else. It is a remote, sparsely populated place, difficult to traverse. The Siyee would notice and report intruders before they ventured far into their land. Why would any Pentadrian undertake such an arduous journey?”

“To find you,” he replied.

“They won’t know I’m there,” she told him.

“Then... for the same reasons you’re going.”

“The Si haven’t invited the Pentadrians into their land to negotiate an alliance as far as I or the ambassadors know. Nor have the Pentadrians approached any other lands.”

He sighed, then nodded his head in defeat. “So how long will I be at a loose end?”

She chuckled. “You won’t be, Danjin. I’ll be gone for only a few months - though if I’m successful Juran is considering sending me to the Elai. The courier he sent to them has not reported his progress for months.”

“The sea people.” Danjin whistled quietly. “Soon there’ll be no mysteries left in the world.”

A troubled expression crossed Auraya’s face, and she looked away. Mischief stirred. She looked down at him and her smile returned.

“There’s one other matter I wanted to discuss with you, Danjin.”

“Yes?”

“Could you come by each day and spend some time with Mischief while I’m gone? You’ll have to be careful. He’s getting sneaky. I keep finding him crawling around on the outside of the window. I’ve had a lock installed, but he’s already learned to open it, so I’m going to have the window nailed shut while I’m away.”

Danjin shuddered. “You do that, and I’ll take care of him.”

She chuckled. “Thank you. I’m sure Mischief will appreciate the company.”

After Danjin left, Auraya paced the room.

I know I sounded much more confident than I feel, she thought. It’s not any particular aspect of this journey that worries me, just that I must do it all alone.

She would not be out of contact with the rest of the world. She could communicate with the other White at any time. Juran had told her to consult with him before she made any major decisions. That was as reassuring as it was reasonable.

Dyara hadn’t raised a word of protest. She had filled the journey back to Jarime with lessons in magic, but there was less of a lecturing manner in her instruction. Dyara was no longer set on holding Auraya back until she had perfected every exercise but instead appeared determined to pass on everything she knew about wielding magic as quickly as possible, telling Auraya to practice whenever she had the time to.

“The rest of us had time to learn at our own pace. It may be that you, as the last of us, will not,” she had said cryptically.

Which only made it harder to avoid worrying about the future. Some nights Auraya woke from nightmares in which she was trapped, powerless, within the grip of the Pentadrian sorcerer’s magic. It was not comforting knowing that someone more powerful than her, who appeared to mean her and her people harm, existed.

She reached the window and stopped. Like any other mortal, she could only put her trust in the gods.

“Lee-ar.”

She turned to find Mischief staring at the door, his pointed ears upright and alert. Chuckling, she strode across the room. As she opened the door, Leiard froze, his hand poised ready for knocking.

“Dreamweaver Leiard.” She smiled. “Come in.”

“Thank you, Auraya of the White.”

“Lee-ar!” Mischief bounded off the chair. Leiard laughed as the veez dashed up the front of his clothes onto his shoulders.

“He likes you.”

“Lucky me,” he replied dryly. He flinched as Mischief began sniffing at his ear.

Thinking of the favor she’d asked of Danjin, Auraya sobered. Mischief didn’t dislike Danjin, but he did seem to like Leiard better. Her first thought had been to ask Leiard to visit Mischief, but she knew how uncomfortable he felt when in the Temple. Better to spare him that.

She suppressed a sigh. How had it come about that both of her advisers had reason to fear visiting her? For Leiard it was being in a place of the gods’ influence; for Danjin it was being so far from the ground.

Perhaps that was part of the reason she was enjoying the company of the Siyee ambassadors so much. Like her, they loved flying and the gods - or at least Huan. Though they were the first people she had encountered that worshipped one god over the others. That wasn’t surprising, however. Huan had created them.

“I called you here to assure you I haven’t been ignoring you,” she told Leiard. “I’ve been so busy I’ve had no time for unofficial visits. I regret that, because we’ll have few opportunities in the near future to talk.”

Leiard looked at her questioningly.

“I’m going to Si, to negotiate another alliance.”

His eyebrows rose. “Si?” He smiled. “You’ll enjoy that The Siyee are a gentle and generous people. Honest and practical.”

“What do you know of them?”

“A little.” He lifted Mischief from his shoulder and sat down. The veez immediately curled up in his lap. Sitting opposite, Auraya felt a small pang of jealousy that her own pet seemed to prefer her visitor.

“The Siyee are in my memories,” he told her. “Since you have spoken to them at length, you will know most of what I do. What they may not have mentioned are the taboos of their culture.”

She leaned forward. “Yes?”

“Not all Siyee can fly,” he told her. “Some are born incapable and some lose the ability. Accidents are tragically common. Old age is particularly cruel to them. Be careful how you refer to these Siyee. Never describe them as crippled.”

“How should I refer to them?”

He shook his head. “They have no commonly used term. If you are to meet with any Siyee, let him or her decide where it should take place. If the one you are to meet is capable of flight, he will come to you. If he is not, you must go to him. In that way, you are not insinuating that the former cannot fly, and treating the latter with respect by not drawing attention to his or her inability.”

“I understand. I’ve noticed they tire easily when walking.”

“Yes.” He paused, then chuckled. “They treat landwalkers more like flightless Siyee than not. But you...” He frowned. “You should not allow them to. Otherwise it will seem like you expect favors you do not deserve.”

This is valuable advice, she realized. I would not have thought it odd if the Siyee always arranged to meet me wherever I am staying.

“Anything else?”

He paused, then shrugged. “That is all I can recall now. If I think of anything else before you leave, I will make sure you know of it.”

She nodded. “Thank you. If you remember something after I have left, tell Danjin. He will be taking care of my affairs here while I’m away.”

“I will. When will you be leaving?”

“In a few days.”

“How long do you expect to be in Si?”

“As long as it’s necessary, and I am welcome. A few months, most likely.”

He nodded. “It is unlikely you will need my advice in that time now that the Somreyan alliance is signed.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “Though I will miss your company.”

He smiled, his eyes flashing. “And I yours.”

“How is your new student, Jayim?”

His expression was a mixture of remorse and determination as he replied. “Not used to working hard,” he said. “But he does have a natural fascination for cures and healing. I have a lot of work in front of me.”

“At least you’ll have more time for it, with me out of your way.”

“But no excuse to escape from my responsibilities,” he pointed out.

She chuckled, then a faint chime drew her attention to a timepiece on the side table. “Ah, I’m afraid I must send you back to them now. I have a lesson with Dyara next.”

She rose. He gently scooped Mischief up and set him aside, then stood and followed her to the door. As he wished her luck, she shook her head.

“I’m sure I’ll find time to talk to you again before I go.”

He nodded, then turned away and started down the stairs. Closing the door, Auraya felt a pang of sadness.

I’m going to miss him. I wonder if he’ll miss me. She strolled to the window and looked down at the people far below. From his thoughts she knew that Leiard regarded her as more than someone who could help his people. He felt affection. Admiration. Respect.

At that thought she felt a pang of guilt. The idea that had come to her in the garden of the Somreyan Temple came rushing back. She had struggled with it several times, unable to decide what she should or should not do. All reason told her that dissuading people from joining the Dreamweaver cult was the right thing to do. The gods did not preserve the souls of those who turned from them. By stopping people joining the Dreamweavers she would be preventing the death of many souls.

Yet she also felt that there was something wrong with causing the demise of the Dreamweavers. Those people chose to become Dreamweavers and knew what they sacrificed.

Furthering Circlian knowledge of healing was a good aim. Deliberately reading Dreamweavers’ minds in order to gain that knowledge was wrong, however. It was stealing. Although arranging for her own people to discover that knowledge for themselves was not.

If I think of it as merely increasing the priests’ healing knowledge, then I will be doing nothing wrong. How can I be blamed if it leads to the Dreamweavers’ demise?

Because I saw the consequences and continued anyway.

She sighed. It’s not my responsibility to save the Dreamweavers.

Leiard should fear me, she thought. She shook her head. It always comes back to Leiard. Do I struggle with this simply because I’m afraid I’ll lose his friendship?

Juran’s warning came back to her. “But be careful, Auraya, that you do not compromise yourself for the sake of friendship.” She turned away from the window. There’s no hurry. A project like this would take years. Its effects wouldn’t be felt for at least a generation. Not until long after Leiard has died.

Sitting down next to Mischief, she scratched his head. The way things are going I may never have time for it anyway. Between making alliances and avoiding a premature death at the hands of these Pentadrians, I think I’ll be occupied for some time.

* * *

“She said she’d always wanted to be buried in a box, like proper people.”

Rayo looked at his sister, then back at the body of the old woman. “Boxes cost.”

“She still has money left,” Tiro said. “Only right we use some for a box.”

“Don’t have to,” his sister said. “When we were in the pit we saw a box that looked like a coffin. It’s what got us talking ‘bout it. Might still be there.”

“Then go see,” Rayo tossed at Tiro. The boy and two others hurried away.

Crouching down, Rayo took the old woman’s hand. It was cold and stiff. “Thank you, Emeria. You fixed m‘ sis, and m’sel’, and were true gen’rous. We’ll get your box, if it’s still there. I hope you don’t mind us taking your money and stuff. It’s not like you’ll be needing it, now you’re with the gods.”

The others nodded. Rayo drew a circle on the old woman’s forehead, then got to his feet. The boys might need help if the box in the pit was big enough to be used as a coffin. There would be digging to do, too. It would take lots of time and energy. He looked at his sister.

“Take her stuff,” he said. She nodded and set to work.

An hour later Emeria’s body lay in the box. His sister and the other girls had slipped up into the hills to pick flowers. All but the woman’s worn-out undershift had been removed from the body, but with the flowers scattered over her everything looked right and respectful.

They each spoke a quick, tearful farewell, then covered the box with a few charred planks of wood salvaged from the burned house they lived under. Rayo and the other boys dug a hole in the small yard behind the house. The ground was hard, and it was dark by the time they finished. Finally they returned to the house, carried the box out and set it in the hole.

When all that was left was a mound of earth, they scattered a few more flowers, then returned to their cellar. All were silent and glum.

“Where’s her stuff?” Rayo asked his sister.

The others gathered around as she brought a stack of clothes and Emeria’s bag to the center of the room. They all grimaced as she opened the bag and a distinctly fishy smell wafted out.

She handled the contents carefully.

“They’re cures. She told me what they were for and how to use them. These ones she said she’d sell, because they weren’t really good for anything, but some people thought they made them good at sex so they were actually worth a lot.”

“We can sell them,” Rayo said.

She nodded. Bringing out a small leather wallet, she tipped the contents onto the ground. The others grinned at the pile of coins.

“She kept this real close, tied round her waist. Her secret stash.”

“Our secret stash,” Rayo said. “Everyone gets something, to be fair. We start with the clothes. I’m taking the tawl. Who wants the tunic?”

As they divided Emeria’s belongings, Rayo felt a warm feeling of lightness. She hadn’t been with them long, but so long as they each had something of hers it would be like a bit of her was still with them.

I hope she’s happy, up there with the gods, he thought. I hope they know they got the best part of her.

16

Though the morning air was growing colder each day, Leiard had chosen to hold Jayim’s lessons in the rooftop garden of the Bakers’ home. It had taken some time and persistence to convince Tanara not to interrupt them. She had initially assumed that she could bring them hot drinks without disrupting the lessons, so long as she didn’t speak. Leiard had told her firmly that her presence broke their concentration and she wasn’t to approach at all. After that she kept creeping up the staircase and peering at them every hour or so, and was disbelieving when he told her that this, too, was a distraction.

He wasn’t sure if he’d convinced her yet. To be sure, he had made a mental note of the average time between interruptions and paced his lessons accordingly. It was essential that they be left alone this morning, as he intended to teach Jayim the finer points of a mind link.

Opening his eyes, Leiard regarded his new student. Jayim’s chest fell in the slow, regular rhythm of a calming trance. A little of the boy’s former reluctance to learn the mind skills of Dreamweavers still remained, but Leiard didn’t expect all doubts to vanish overnight. Otherwise, Jayim was being attentive and working hard. His enthusiasm was for medicines and healing, and he was progressing well in those areas.

That was part of the reason Leiard had decided they would perform a mind link today: he wanted to see if they could pinpoint the source of Jayim’s aversion to developing his telepathic abilities. The other reason was so that Leiard could assert control over the link memories that were overlapping his own identity. He wasn’t sure what would happen to him if he didn’t. Would his sense of self continue to erode? Would his thoughts become a muddle of conflicting memories? Or would he begin to believe he was Mirar?

He did not intend to find out. Closing his eyes again, Leiard held out his hands.

“We gather tonight in peace and in pursuit of understanding. Our minds will be linked. Our memories shall flow between us. Let none seek or spy, or impose a will upon another. Instead, we shall become one mind. Take my hands, Jayim.”

He felt the boy’s slim fingers brush his, then grasp his hands. As Jayim sensed Leiard’s mind, he recoiled slightly. Leiard heard him take a deep breath, then reach out again.

At first there was only a sense of expectation. Leiard felt his companion’s nervousness and waited patiently. Soon, snatches of thought and memory flitted through Jayim’s mind. Previous lessons, Leiard saw. Embarrassment at private matters revealed. He found himself thinking back, to other links with adolescent boys and similar secrets unintentionally revealed.

:Do not try to block these memories, he advised. Blocking disrupts the link.

:But I don’t want to reveal them! Jayim protested.

:Nudge them aside. Try this: whenever you find your mind wandering in that direction, think of something else. Select an image or subject that is neither pleasant nor unpleasant, but which will lead your thoughts away.

:Like what?

:I list the medicines useful to babies.

To his credit, several such medicines sprang to Jayim’s mind. His thoughts soon returned to the former subject, however.

:Does this distraction work all the time?

:Most of the time.

:Do you use the same trick to stop yourself giving away other secrets - like those that Auraya tells you?

Leiard smiled.

:What makes you think Auraya tells me secrets?

:I sense that she has.

The boy was perceptive. Leiard sensed smugness.

:Could I trust you with those secrets? he asked.

Jayim was all curiosity and eagerness now. Of course he would keep whatever he learned to himself. He would never risk losing Leiard’s trust. Besides, if he did, Leiard would learn of it in the next memory link.

Then doubts crept in. What if he accidentally let something slip? What if someone tricked him into giving secrets away?

:Secrets are best kept secret, Leiard said. The more who know, the less secret they are. It is not distrust that keeps me from telling you, Jayim.

:You like Auraya, don’t you?

The abrupt change of subject made Leiard pause. It also stirred a mixture of emotions.

:Yes, he replied. She is a friend.

But he knew she was more than that. She was the child he had once taught, who had grown into a powerful, beautiful woman...

:You think she’s beautiful, Jayim stated. His amusement deepened. You fancy her!

:No! Her face came into his thoughts and he felt a familiar admiration suddenly sharpen into longing. Shocked, he pulled away from Jayim’s mind, breaking the link.

The boy said nothing. Leiard sensed smugness again. He ignored it.

I don’t desire Auraya, he told himself.

I’m afraid you do, another voice in his mind disagreed.

But she is young.

Not so young anymore.

She is a White.

All the more reason to desire her. The attraction of the forbidden is a powerful force.

No. Jayim has put the idea into my head. I do not desire her. Next time I meet Auraya I will feel just as I did before.

We’ll see.

Opening his eyes, Leiard saw that Jayim was watching him expectantly.

“Your secret is mine,” the boy said.

“There is no secret,” Leiard said firmly. “You proposed an idea I hadn’t considered. Now I have, and I believe you are wrong.”

The boy looked away and nodded, but he was obviously holding back a smile. Leiard sighed.

“Why don’t you fetch some hot drinks from your mother. We’ll have a rest, then begin again.”

Jayim nodded, then scrambled to his feet. Leiard watched him hurry away.

They say to teach a student is to be taught yourself. I only hope Jayim’s lesson proves to be wrong.

If I had known how soon the next Gathering was going to be, Tryss thought, I would never have made Drilli that promise.

The day after the trei-trei, the Speakers had announced that a Gathering would be held in four days. Drilli believed that they wanted to warn everyone about the birds, and Tryss figured she was probably right. That had left him little time to ready himself for presenting his harness. Now that the day of the Gathering had arrived, he could think of a thousand things he still needed to do, and another thousand that could go wrong.

He’d done all he could do in the short time he’d had. He’d practiced using the harness and blowpipe every day, avoiding duties at home and ignoring the scolding he’d received in return. His father’s disapproval lacked conviction, however, since Tryss always brought back meat for their dinner.

He could not bring back all of the animals he’d killed, however. It would have drawn too much attention to himself too early. Though he had managed to bring down another yern, he hadn’t dared carry back meat from such a large beast. Leaving it to the scavengers was the only option, and that had dampened his elation at his success.

He could not hunt yern as part of his demonstration.

The animals were too big to trap and transport to the Open. Drilli had suggested breem. They were small, quick and shy of humans, which meant they would probably stay within the half-circle of gathered Siyee, but they were still challenging enough that killing them with missiles from the air would impress most people.

Drilli had trapped several every day so Tryss could practice hunting them. She had also decorated the harness, painting it in bright colors so it would be more visible at a distance. He was finding he was not too comfortable with the idea of being the sole object of everyone’s attention at a Gathering, but when she pointed out that the paint actually drew more attention to the harness than to him he felt a little better.

He had moved the harness from the cave in which he’d been hiding it to his family bower this morning, keeping it concealed in a large string-reed sack. At Drilli’s urging he had explained to his parents what it was, and that he was going to show it to the Gathering that night. His parents’ reaction had been mixed. His mother couldn’t see why ordinary hunting methods weren’t good enough, but was excited by the thought of him presenting his ideas to the Gathering. His fattier, on the other hand, appeared impressed by the invention, but was worried about Tryss making a fool of himself - and his family.

As am I, Tryss thought wryly.

He was prepared to take that risk. Almost everything was in place, so he couldn’t back out now. He didn’t want to, anyway. Though the thought of the demonstration filled him with trepidation, Drilli’s confidence in him was infectious. Whenever he doubted, she was full of reassurances. He was ready. All that remained was to ask the Speakers for time to address the Siyee.

He’d left this to the last moment. Once he did, word would spread that he was going to demonstrate a hunting invention. He’d be plagued by questions and probably taunted by more than just his cousins.

The sun was low in the sky when he approached the Speakers’ Bower. The Siyee leaders were standing around the entrance and several regarded him suspiciously as he drew near them.

He hesitated, aware that his heart was racing and his stomach was fluttering with nervousness.

“May I talk to Speaker Sirri?” Tryss forced himself to ask. He looked through the bower entrance but could not see anything in the dark interior. A shadow moved into the opening and Speaker Sirri stepped out.

“Tryss. We have many important matters to discuss before the Gathering begins. Can this wait until tomorrow?”

“Not really,” he said, aware that other Speakers were staring at him disapprovingly. “I’ll be quick.”

She nodded, then shrugged. “Come in, then.”

Tryss’s heart skipped. He had never been inside the Speakers’ Bower before. With shaking legs he walked past her. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light. The interior was plain and unadorned. A ring of stools stood at the center. He was pleased to see the room was empty of other Siyee.

“What is it, then, Tryss?”

He turned to face Speaker Sirri. For a moment he could not find his voice. She smiled, the skin around her eyes creasing, and he remembered that she was only one of his own tribe, selected by his own people, and he had no reason to be intimidated by her.

“I’ve made something,” he told her. “I want to show it to everyone tonight.”

“Your hunting harness?”

He stared at her in surprise. Her smile widened.

“Sreil told me about it. He said it had potential.”

“He did?” Tryss blurted out. He thought back to the day he’d brought down a yern with drug-tipped spikes months earlier. Sreil had said something... “Good try.” Tryss had assumed the boy had been mocking him. Perhaps he’d meant what he’d said.

“Yes,” Sirri replied. Her smile faded. “I have to warn you. It will take a lot to convince people. Nobody likes the idea of carrying anything heavy or—”

“It’s not heavy,” Tryss interrupted.

“- or being encumbered by something,” she continued. “You are sure this invention of yours works?”

He swallowed hard, then nodded.

“Then I’ll give you time to show it to us at the beginning of the Gathering. That gives you an hour to get ready. Is that enough?”

He nodded again.

“Then go.” She indicated the doorway.

Tryss hurried out. As the other Speakers turned to regard him, he realized he was grinning foolishly. He schooled his expression and walked away.

An hour! he thought. I thought I’d have to wait until the end of the Gathering. I had better tell Drilli, then get the harness.

Once he was clear of the dense forest around the Speakers’ Bower he leapt into the air. He flew down the Open to Drill’s family bower. Landing outside her home, he called her name. At once he heard voices arguing inside. After a moment she pushed through the door-hanging, grabbed his arm and drew him quickly away. He looked back to see her mother frowning at them from the entrance.

“Well? Did they say you could show the harness?” Drilli asked.

Tryss grinned. “Yes. But at the start, not the end like we thought. We’ve got less than an hour.”

Her eyes widened. “That soon?”

“Yes. You better get the breem ready while I get the harness.”

“No, I’ll need your help to carry them. We’ll get the harness first.”

They hurried to his family bower. Tryss was surprised to find it empty.

“My parents must have left early,” he told her. “They said they—”

The words he had been about to speak fled his mind as he saw what lay in the center of the bower.

Brightly colored pieces of wood were scattered across the floor. The strips of leather and gut that had bound the harness together lay in pieces. The blowpipe, so carefully painted by Drilli, had been crushed. The bag that had held the darts had been shredded, and even the darts had been broken, each one snapped in two.

Tryss stared at the fragments of his invention and felt as if his heart, too, was breaking into pieces.

“Who did this?” he heard himself saying in a wounded, incredulous voice. “Who would do something like this?”

“Your cousins,” Drilli said in a low voice. She shook her head. “It’s all my fault. They’re jealous of you. Because of me.”

She made a little choking sound, and he realized she was crying. Amazed that she could be so upset about something he had made - though with her help - he took a step toward her, then hesitantly put an arm around her shoulders. She turned toward him, her eyes shining with tears.

“I’m sorry.”

He drew her close. “It’s not your fault,” he told her, stroking her hair. “If you believe that, they win.”

She sniffed, then straightened and nodded. “They haven’t won yet,” she said firmly, wiping the tears from her eyes. “We’ll show them. We’ll show all of them. Just... not tonight.”

He looked at the remains of his harness and felt hurt and disappointment harden into a knot of anger deep inside. “Next time I’ll make two harnesses. Maybe three.”

“And I’ll get my cousins to keep an eye on Ziss and Trinn.”

“Better still, tie them up somewhere for the night.”

Drilli managed a smile. “Hang them by their ankles.”

“Next to a tiwi hive.”

“Covered in rebi juice.”

“After removing their clothes.”

“And their skin. With a seeding knife.”

“You’re scaring me now.”

Drilli’s smile was feral. She bent and picked up the splintered blowpipe. “Do you need any of this, to make another?”

“No.”

“Good.” She took a basket from a hanger, squatted and began gathering up the pieces. ,

“What are you going to do with them?”

She grimaced. “One of us has to tell the Speakers you won’t be demonstrating your harness. If I go, they’ll know someone else believes in you. And showing them this will convince them you weren’t messing them around.”

Tryss felt a heavy weight settle around him as the full effect of his cousins’ act became clear. The Speakers knew what he was working on. People would suspect he had blamed others for the failure of his invention - or lacked the courage to demonstrate it. He would be—

“You’d better find your parents and tell them.” Drilli straightened. “Be quiet about it and pretend everything’s normal.”

She hesitated, then stepped up to him. Her lips quirked into a smile, then she leaned forward and kissed him. He blinked in surprise, but as he began to kiss her back she moved away. She winked and pushed aside the door-hanging.

“I’ll see you there.”

And then she was hurrying away.

17

Watching the Siyee ambassadors closely, Auraya recognized the telltale signs of weariness. Being small in stature, they did not have a great tolerance for intoxicating drink, and, like children, they were energetic in their movements but tired quickly.

Dyara was talking quietly to Tireel. Auraya heard snatches of their conversation.

“... courage to cross so much landwalker territory, when your people have had good reason to fear us.”

“We flew high and mostly at night,” he replied. “Landwalkers do not look up often. When they did, they probably thought they were seeing large birds.”

Dyara nodded. “You will not need to take such precautions on your return. Auraya will not allow you to be harmed.”

“For that we are grateful. It seems to me that the gods must be in favor of this alliance, or they would not have given one of you this power to resist the pull of the earth.”

Auraya smiled. The Siyee ambassadors did not call her Gift flight. They saw no similarity between using magic, as she did, and riding the winds. Even so, they believed that she, of all landwalkers, might truly understand their people. The ability to fly was at the core of what they were, both physically and culturally.

As Zeeriz yawned she looked pointedly at Juran.

:Our guests have reached their limits, Auraya told the White leader.

:I think you’re right.

Juran straightened, then cleared his throat. All eyes turned to him.

“I would like to offer a prayer,” he said. “And wish our guests a good journey one last time before we retire.” He paused, then closed his eyes. “Chaia, Huan, Lore, Yranna, Sam. We thank you for all you have done to bring us together tonight, in order that we may bring peace and understanding to the lands of Ithania. We ask that you watch over Tireel of the Green Lake tribe, Zeeriz of the Fork River tribe and Auraya of the White as they journey to the land of Si. May you guide and protect them.”

He opened his eyes, then picked up his glass. At once servants hurried forward to add a dash more tintra to their glasses. Auraya smothered a smile as she saw Zeeriz’s look of dismay.

“I wish you a safe and pleasant journey.” Juran looked over the rim of his glass at one ambassador, then the other. His grave expression softened into a smile. He raised his glass to his lips and sipped. As all followed suit, Auraya noted how Zeeriz gulped almost all of the tintra in his glass, as if to get rid of it faster.

Tireel grinned. “We’ll look after Auraya,” he assured Juran.

“She’ll be treated like... like...” Zeeriz began.

“Like an honored guest,” Tireel finished.

“Thank you,” Juran said. “Then we’d best let you both get some sleep in preparation for your long flight.”

He pushed back his chair and rose. Auraya turned to face Zeeriz and, finding him gone, looked down. She had ordered high chairs to be made so the Siyee would sit at an equal height to any other occupants of the dining table. It was always a surprise to find herself suddenly towering over them again at the end of a meal.

Zeeriz’s eyes were closed. He swayed a little, then opened them and blinked up at her.

“It’s just not fair how much you landwalkers can drink,” he muttered.

She chuckled. “Let me take you back to your room.”

He nodded and let her guide him out into the corridor. She heard Dyara and Tireel following, still talking. The ambassadors were staying on one of the middle floors of the Tower, close to the dining hall. Auraya and Dyara bade their guests good night, then started toward their rooms. As they reached the great staircase, Dyara gave Auraya a speculative look.

“You seem more worried about this journey than the last,” she observed.

Auraya glanced at Dyara. “I am,” she admitted.

“Why do you think that is?”

“I must do it alone.”

“You can still consult with Juran or me,” Dyara pointed out. “It is more than that, I think.”

Auraya nodded. “Perhaps I didn’t care quite as much whether I succeeded with the Somreyans or not. It’s not that I didn’t care at all,” she hurried to explain, “but the possibility of failing with the Siyee, of giving them reason to dislike us, bothers me. They are, I guess, more trusting of us. The Somreyans weren’t. So, if I fail, it will be akin to betraying their trust.”

“You didn’t feel the same obligation to avoid betraying the trust of the Dreamweavers?”

Auraya shrugged. “They never trusted us in the first place.”

“No,” Dyara replied. She looked thoughtful. “But your friend trusts you. It was a bold move, making him your adviser. I thought it unwise, but it has proved to be quite beneficial.”

Auraya stared at Dyara in amazement, then looked away. Was this approval? From Dyara? Over befriending a Dreamweaver?

Dyara halted at the door to Auraya’s rooms. “Good night, Auraya. I will see you at the farewell tomorrow.”

“Good night,” Auraya replied. “And... thank you.”

Dyara smiled, then turned away to continue up the stairs. As Auraya entered her rooms, she considered Dyara’s words.

“But your friend trusts you.”

She hadn’t had a chance to speak to Leiard in the last few days. Tomorrow she would be leaving early. No chance to see him one last time.

Then tonight is my only chance to say goodbye.

She frowned. It was late. Too late to send for him. She couldn’t send someone to wake him up and bring him to the Tower only to spend five minutes with him before sending him home again.

Would he really mind? She pursed her lips. What was worse: dragging him up here in the middle of the night, or not saying goodbye?

Smiling to herself, she closed her eyes and sought the mind of the priest on night duty below. After giving him her instructions, she sat down to wait.

This time tomorrow I’ll be sleeping in a village Temple somewhere. She glanced around the room. Everything looked as it always did. There was no trunk of belongings, just a small pack containing spare white clothing and some gifts for the Siyee. Everything she needed would be given to her by the priests and priestesses of the Temples she stayed in.

Once she entered the mountains there would be no more Temples. The Siyee had assured her that all her needs could be met in their land. They would supply her with all the objects of a civilized culture, such as paper and ink, which they made themselves. She would be given a “bower” of her own to stay in.

Standing up, she walked to the window and looked down. The Dome was a shadowed expanse, ringed by lanterns. A few priests and servants hurried about their business. The city below was a scattering of lights in a sea of black.

A tarn entered the Temple loaded with healer priests. Auraya watched two platten arrive, then felt her heartbeat quicken as she saw another pass under the arch bearing a single occupant. Even from so far above, she recognized Leiard. His white hair and beard stood out despite the distance. As the platten approached, he looked up. She found herself smiling, even though she knew he could not see her.

Moving away from the window, she began pacing the room. Would he mind that she’d called him here? Suddenly her purpose for doing so - just to say goodbye - seemed silly. She could have sent a note instead. She could have visited him... No, that would have disturbed the whole household of the people he was staying with.

Well, there’s nothing to be done about it now, she decided. I’ll apologize, say goodbye, then send him home. By the time I return to Jarime he’ll have forgiven me.

She paced the room. What was taking him so long? Perhaps she had been mistaken. She moved to the window.

I could question the priest on duty...

She froze as a light tapping came from the door, then let her breath out in a rush.

He’s here.

Smoothing her circ, she strode to the door and opened it. Leiard regarded her with wary expectation.

“Leiard. Come in.” She ushered him inside. “Sorry about the late hour. I haven’t had a moment to myself, and no time to see you as I promised. I’m leaving tomorrow. I couldn’t go without saying goodbye.”

He nodded slowly, and she was pleased to see he was not annoyed, only relieved. It dawned on her, then, that by calling him here so late she had caused him to wonder if something was wrong. Why hadn’t she foreseen that?

“I guess I should have just sent a message,” she added ruefully. “Rather than wake you up.”

His lips twitched into a slight smile. “I don’t mind.”

“I don’t just need to say goodbye. I need to thank you.” She paused, then reached for his hand. He hesitated, then lifted his hand to hers. Their fingers met. She drew breath to speak, but stopped as she met his eyes. His expression was tight and wary, as if he was struggling to control some emotion. She looked closer. His thoughts were in turmoil. Her touch had roused...

She felt heat rush through her body. Her touch had aroused him. He was struggling to suppress desire for her.

I hadn’t realized his admiration was so... but I guess it wasn’t or I would have seen it in his mind. This is something new. This has happened tonight. Now.

Her heart was racing. Her own body had reacted to his desire. She felt a smile pull at her lips. I desire him. Now we’ve both discovered something.

She was conscious of the tense silence between them. The only sound was their breathing. Neither of them had moved. His gaze hadn’t left hers. We should step away from each other and pretend this never happened. Instead, she reached out and touched his cheek, then traced a finger across his lips. He didn’t move away, but neither did he return the caress. She read hesitation in his thoughts.

This decision has to be mine, she realized. He cannot forget who we are. Only I can make this choice.

She smiled and lifted her lips to his. He returned her kiss gently, sending a shiver down her spine. Then they both moved together, reaching out to the other. She kissed him firmly and he responded with equal hunger and passion. Their bodies collided; she grasped his vest and pulled him close against her. His hands slid around her back, but his touch was dulled by the thickness of her circ.

Vest. Circ. Reminders of who they were. She didn’t want to be reminded. Not now. These reminders must go.

She laughed quietly. This is not like me, she thought. Leiard’s lips left her mouth and he began kissing her throat, and then her neck, his lips hot and firm. This is not like him either. She was discovering a side of him she had never suspected existed.

And I like it. She chuckled. Winding her arms around his waist, she backed toward the door to her private rooms.

Emerahl smiled and ran her hands over her body.

It worked.

But of course it had. She had never botched the change. Mirar had told her long ago that her ability to change her body was an innate Gift. He had a theory that all Wilds had a Gift that came naturally. Like musical ability came to those with true talent. Hers was the ability to change her physical age.

Opening her eyes, she saw only darkness. The air was growing stuffy rapidly. Once she had roused from the death trance, she had created small tunnels to let air into the box. They weren’t enough now that she had brought her body out of the slowed state necessary to change her appearance, and she was breathing at a normal rate.

She grimaced. A death trance was never pleasant, but it had been essential to fool the children and had allowed her to survive being buried underground. She did not know how many days had passed, but one thing was sure: she had to get out of her coffin soon or she would suffocate.

She was not sure where the children had buried her, however. If they, or anyone else, saw her dig her way out of her grave, the story of it would spread faster than a winter cough, perhaps alerting the priest to her change of appearance. She would have to be careful.

Closing her eyes, she sent her mind out and was pleased when she managed to sense the emotions of others nearby. It was not easy sorting through them, but she recognized the sleepy thoughts of children. She cursed. They were somewhere close by. She would have to be quiet.

Slowly, Emerahl drew magic and used it to break through the box lid just above her head. She shifted the dirt above it down to the other end of her coffin to gather around her feet. The pale sky of near-dawn appeared above her sooner than she expected.

They ought to have buried me deeper, she thought. But their ignorance has saved me some trouble.

She enlarged the hole until it was big enough to allow her body through, then squirmed and pushed upward. Peering out, she saw that she was in the small yard at the back of the burned-out house the children lived under. She paused to think.

I could bury myself again and wait until they all go out for the day. She considered. No. A few always stay behind to mind the place during the day. Better to go now while they’re asleep.

Drawing her arms up, she grabbed the lip of the hole and pulled. She had to pause to catch her breath several times, and as more of her emerged into the morning light she saw why. The change had used up a lot of her body fat.

Her arms were bony and wasted, her breasts almost nonexistent. As she brushed dirt off the dirty white shift the children had left her in, she felt the hardness of protruding hip bones beneath.

I’m weak and scrawny, she mused. A skeleton reborn from a coffin womb. I wouldn’t blame anyone for thinking me some unholy, unwholesome creature today.

At last she was able to get her feet under her and stand up. To her relief she had enough strength to stand, probably to walk, too. Stepping up out of her grave, she turned and considered the evidence of her rise from death.

Better fix this mess.

Drawing magic, she shifted and smoothed the dirt until the hole was filled and all sign of her emergence was gone. She smiled sadly as she saw the shrivelled flowers scattered over the ground. She wished she could do more for the children, but she had her own survival to think of.

What next?

She looked down at herself. Her hands and arms were covered in dirt and she was wearing only a stained shift. Her hair hung down over her shoulders, still the stiff white hair of an old woman. She needed a wash, then clothes and food, and something to dye her hair with.

It was then that she realized the wallet she had strapped to her body was gone. She was not surprised; she had known there was a good chance the children would find it. After all, she could not hide everything inside her.

She briefly considered sneaking into the house to look for it, but dismissed the thought straightaway. It was too great a risk, and the children had probably spent most of it already. Turning her back on her “grave,” she quietly walked past the house and out into the poor quarter.

The thin gray light of morning slowly brightened. The streets were quiet but not deserted. She passed a pair of middle-aged washerwomen, who regarded her with distaste, then a younger man with a wooden leg stopped to leer at her. She felt self-conscious for the first time in over a hundred years.

And people ask me why I, who can be any age I please, would choose to be old? Emerahl thought wryly.

But then, there were definitely pleasures to be gained from being young again. She had always been attractive to men when in her younger form. Sometimes women, too. Some of her good looks obviously still showed despite her current wasted state. She only needed some regular healthy meals to regain her curves.

But food cost money. She frowned as she considered the near future. With her wallet and her body fat gone, she needed to find a source of income quickly. Theft was a possibility, but she was long out of practice and didn’t have the strength to run if she was seen. Being caught might bring her to priestly attention.

Priests were looking for a woman who sold cures, so she could not consider selling her knowledge and skills in that area either. She continued downhill, heading toward the sea. The direction she had chosen amused her. She had been born by the ocean, and had always been drawn to water in times of strife. When the flat, liquid horizon finally appeared, she sighed with relief and quickened her steps.

Once she reached the water’s edge she followed the road that hugged the shore, looking for a more private place to wash. Most of the small bays were occupied. When she came to a small bay with a single pier she stopped. Two fishermen were working in their boat, one young, one old, preparing their catch for market. She considered them for a moment, then walked boldly down the pier.

“Looks like a good catch,” she said as she passed.

They glanced up, then stared at her. She smiled back at them, then turned away. Reaching the end of the pier, she stepped off.

Cold water engulfed her and the shock of it drove the air from her lungs in a rush of bubbles. She felt sand beneath her feet and pushed up again. Coming to the surface, she sucked in air, then kicked away from the pier.

“Lady?”

She rolled over, then laughed as she saw the two fishermen peering at her from the end of the pier, both wearing worried expressions.

“Don’t worry,” she told them. “I just wanted to get clean.”

“You gave us a scare,” the younger man said reproachfully. “Thought you wanted to drown yourself.”

“I’m sorry.” She swam toward them, noting how their eyes shifted from her face to those parts of her that came to the surface. The shift was half-transparent now that it was wet. “Thank you for thinking to save me.” She swam under the pier.

She could hear them walking along the boards above her. There had been no mistaking their interest. She pursed her lips, considering. One way to solve her current dilemma had already occurred to her, and now an opportunity had presented itself. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t done this sort of work before. In fact, she had always considered herself quite good at it.

Looking up, she noted how the beams of wood crossed to form a narrow, slimy shelf. Hidden by the water, she reached under her shift, probed inside herself.

This is one of the reasons some men call this part of a woman’s body a whore’s purse, she thought as she drew out a small bag. Among the contents was the sea bell, dembar sap pendant and some coins. The coins would not buy her much more than a few meals, and no jeweller would give her even a fraction of a fair price for such a valuable sea bell while she looked like she did now. No, she would have to work up to that. She put the bag up on the slimy shelf then swam out from under the pier.

The fishermen’s attention snapped back to her. They walked alongside as she paddled toward their boat.

“This your boat?” she asked.

“My father’s,” the young man said, glancing at his companion.

“Mind if I come aboard while I dry off?”

The pair exchanged glances, then the older man nodded. “Why not?”

She grinned at them, then swam to the vessel’s side. The younger man stepped onto the boat, reached down and took her hand, then hauled her up onto the deck. She noticed the father glancing about to see if anyone was watching, and smothered a smile. Thinking of your wife, are you?

Stepping back, she drew magic and sent heat and air through her shift. The younger man moved away and regarded her with new respect. Though she knew she probably looked more exciting wet, these two potential customers needed to know she could not be easily cheated of her fee.

When her shift was dry, she let out a sigh.

“You’d think with all my Gifts I wouldn’t have ended up a whore.” She looked up at them and blushed. “I only just started, mind. And I won’t be doing it for long, either. Only until I can find a job.”

The two men exchanged glances, then the father cleared his throat.

“How much?”

Emerahl smiled. “Well, I think such gallant men who thought to save a lady from drowning ought to receive a discount, don’t you?”

And this, she thought wryly, is the other reason men call that part of a woman’s body a whore’s purse.