“What did you expect?”
“I thought you would teach it the same way Mirar taught me to heal - through a mind link.”
Jade laughed. “If only that were possible. Unfortunately, it’s not possible to see into a shielded mind, so I can’t show you what I do to shield mine.”
“So I’ve just got to work it out for myself? I don’t need anyone’s help?” Auraya frowned. “Then why am I here?”
“You need someone able to sense your thoughts to tell you if they’re hidden or not.”
Auraya nodded. “But you can only read my mind while mind-skimming. Are you planning to spend the entire time in a dream trance?”
“All immortals can sense emotions,” Jade told her. “When I can no longer sense your emotions, I’ll attempt to skim your mind.”
This was a new and interesting piece of information. Mirar must be able to sense emotions, too. He hadn’t been able to sense hers when she was a White, but he would be able to now. And she couldn’t read his mind any more.
How the tables have turned, she mused. It’s just as well he isn’t here.
“As I said,” Jade continued, “imagine drawing a veil across your mind. You can see out but nobody can see in.”
Auraya tried. She pictured the veil over and over, even pictured a heavy sack over her head, but no matter what she did Jade could still sense her emotions.
Soon she was feeling such strong frustration she knew even a Giftless mortal would have detected it. The hours dragged past. Eventually Jade sighed and put down the basket she was weaving.
“That’s enough for tonight. It is late. Get some sleep.”
Auraya smothered a smile at the woman’s dismissive manner. She lay on her bed and listened as Jade walked to the back of the cave and began rustling among the supplies.
For a while she lay there, worrying. Tyve had told her that the priests in the Open had tried and failed to contact her through her priest ring. She had explained that hers was not working properly, though she didn’t tell him that the void was the cause.
I have to hope that none of the White try to contact me, she thought. The sooner I can leave here the better.
So... a veil over my mind, she thought. Sleep is sometimes described like that. So is it like falling asleep? She closed her eyes and let her thoughts wander. Slowly she relaxed and felt the tension of striving with her mind fade away. I’m more tired than I thought I was. It’s so good just letting my mind rest.
:Auraya.
The voice tugged her reluctantly back toward consciousness. For a moment she felt only annoyance, then she realized she knew the voice.
:Mirar?
There was a pause.
:How are you faring?
:You’re dream-linking... how is that possible? My priest ring doesn’t work in the void.
:I don’t know, but I guess the ring must require unbroken magic between itself and another. Or perhaps the ring relies on a link to the gods to work.
:So dream-linking and mind-skimming don’t require unbroken magic?
:No. So, how are you faring?
:If you mean at shielding my mind, then not well at all. I don’t know how I’m supposed to just stumble upon it by myself in a few days. She felt the frustration of the day shift into anger. Do you realize the risk you’ve forced me to take? The position you’ve put me in? The gods allowed me to resign and remain a priestess on the condition that I do not hamper them or ally myself with their enemies. It’s quite clear they consider you an enemy. I should have left here as soon as I knew that Jade was your friend, even if that meant the gods would discover her, even if that meant the gods might find you.
:But you didn’t.
:No. You’ve both taken advantage of me. Forced me to learn to hide my thoughts in order to protect you.
:We’ve forced you to learn something that might save your life.
:Or end it.
:So you believe the gods will kill you if they can’t read your thoughts?
Auraya paused. Anger and weariness were making her say illogical things.
:No. It will just make matters worse between us. Is this your way of avenging yourself? Are you punishing me or trying to force me to turn from the gods?
:Neither! I want to help you by teaching you to protect yourself. I want you to be all that you are meant to be - deserve to be! A powerful sorceress. An immortal. He paused. Don’t you want to be immortal?
Auraya felt a shiver go through her. Do I? Of course I do. But I don’t want to be immortal if it means turning from the gods. I don’t want to be a Wild, hunted and hated.
She felt anger deepen, but this time at the gods. Why does it have to be like that? I can be immortal and still worship the gods. Why must they stop me from becoming all I can be, when it is of no threat to them?
Perhaps Chaia would allow her that freedom, but Huan never would. Huan wanted unquestioning obedience from her worshippers. I’ve already lost her regard by proving myself unworthy, she thought. Perhaps eventually she’ll forgive me. In the meantime it would be better not to give the goddess any further reason to distrust me.
:Jade says when you taught me to heal you taught me enough so that I could discover the secret of immortality for myself, she said to Mirar. Perhaps one day I’ll be in a position to try it without offending the gods. But for now it’s pointless. What you call immortality isn’t true immortality. I can still be killed. And I will be, if I defy the gods again.
Mirar was silent for a long time before he replied.
:The gods can hold grudges for a very long time, Auraya. They might not use magic to kill you, but they can make sure age does it for them. And remember this: if I thought becoming immortal was the only reason the gods might kill you, I’d never have risked teaching you to heal.
And with that, he was gone.
6
Older people are supposed to be the cautious ones, Ranaan thought as he followed Dreamweaver Fareeh down the dark alley. Younger people are the ones that rush into danger. So what’s wrong with us? Why is my teacher the one willing to take risks while I’m the one who’s scared out of his wits?
They reached the end of the alley and Fareeh stopped to peer around a building into the larger street.
Because I’m a coward, Ranaan told himself, and Fareeh isn’t. It’s easier for him, too. He’s Gifted and he’s big. I’m a skinny runt, and I know I haven’t even learned enough Gifts in six months to defend myself from an attack of dartflies.
The big man stepped out into the street. Taking a deep breath, Ranaan forced himself to follow. They walked purposefully but kept to the shadows as much as possible. In this part of the city the only lamps that burned were those maintained by the occupants of the houses. The moon, however, was bright and round.
Ranaan glanced at his teacher. The Dreamweaver’s quiet confidence reassured patients at the hospice. He was everything they liked about Dreamweavers: sturdy, calm, knowledgeable and patient. He made these trips out to visit sick people despite the dangers because he was a nice person.
I just wish he didn’t insist I come with him.
Ranaan grimaced. I am not a nice person. I’m a coward who’d rather let someone die than risk a beating. I don’t deserve such a good teacher.
A door opened ahead. Ranaan’s heart began racing as three men stepped out, laughing. Fareeh did not even check his stride. He walked around them, Ranaan following.
The young Dreamweaver’s legs were shaking as he and his teacher continued down the road. He strained his ears for sounds of pursuit. There were footsteps, growing quieter. Was that because the men were making an effort to make less noise?
He looked behind. The men were walking in the other direction.
“Nearly there,” Fareeh murmured.
Ranaan glanced at his teacher and caught a knowing smile. He felt his face warm and said nothing. They turned into a lane. Fareeh paused and created a spark of light to illuminate the directions on the slip of paper he carried. He
nodded, extinguished the light, and continued down the lane.
The way turned around a protruding section of a building then ended. Fareeh slowed and began looking up at the buildings around them.
“It says they have left a light in the...”
His quiet words were lost behind the bang of a slammed door. Footsteps sounded behind them. Ranaan turned and felt his heart begin to race again. He counted eight, maybe nine figures fanning out to surround him and his teacher.
“What are you doing here, Dreamweaver?”
The accent was typical of the poor quarter, but there was something about it that sounded wrong to Ranaan.
Fareeh gave the windows of the buildings one more quick glance.
“Discovering that I am in the wrong place,” he replied. “The directions I was given appear to be incorrect.”
“You’re right about that,” another voice said. Ranaan looked at the speaker. The man’s high voice did not match his heavy build.
“We will trouble you no longer,” Fareeh said. He took a step toward the gap between two of the men, then stopped. The men had moved closer together to block him.
Ranaan held back a groan of dismay and fear. His legs were shaking and he felt ill. He wondered if his heart could beat any faster. If it did, it might just leap out of his throat.
A spark of light appeared, illuminating the palm of Fareeh’s hand. It brightened and Ranaan looked beyond to the faces of the men. His mouth went dry as he understood why the poor-quarter accent had sounded wrong.
This was no street gang of the area. The accents had been faked. Though the clothes the men wore were plain, they were well made - casual wear for outdoor sports. Their smiles revealed near-flawless teeth. The high-voiced man was not muscular, but wore the fat of one who lived an indulgent life.
One, a blond with immaculately trimmed hair, took a step forward.
“You’re right,” he said. “You’re definitely not going to trouble us again.”
Then the lane contorted with magic. Ranaan heard Fareeh tell him to stay within his shield. He huddled against his teacher as attacks came from all sides.
All of them. They’re all Gifted. How can this be? Are the rich buying magical training for those sons who do not become priests?
Fareeh gave a small grunt of anger. He reached behind and gripped Ranaan’s arm. Pulling his student around, he leaned close.
“I’ll hold them,” he murmured. “You go. Go to the hospice. Get help.”
Ranaan staggered as Fareeh propelled him away. He saw the strangers turn to attack him and felt a rush of terror. His legs found their strength and he fled. Nothing stopped him. No one stepped out from the darkness to block his path. At the end of the street he threw himself around the corner and ran.
A few streets later he realized he wasn’t being followed and the feeling of panic subsided. He stopped as his mind began to work again and he realized two things: Fareeh wouldn’t have sent Ranaan for help if he’d thought he could free himself alone. He must be outnumbered.
Of course he’s outnumbered. There were eight of them!
The hospice was several streets away. Fareeh couldn’t possibly hold eight sorcerers off long enough for Ranaan to return with help.
I should go back and help him, he thought.
Don’t be stupid. What can you do? Recite herb cures to them?
Indecision paralyzed him. Suddenly he realized he could hear voices behind him. Laughter. Crows of delight. He recognized the high-pitched voice of the fat man and shuddered.
Realizing he was standing right in the pool of light cast by a lamp he spun around, searching for a hiding place. The closest was the shallow alcove of a doorway. He dashed into it and pressed himself against the door-frame, trembling.
The voices grew louder. Words like “easy” and “pathetic” and “good work” reached him. Then one of the men told the others to shut up.
They quietened. Urgent discussion followed, then footsteps. Ranaan held his breath as the men strode toward his hiding place.
“Hurry up!”
The steps quickened. Two men ran past Ranaan. They disappeared down the end of the street. Other footsteps faded away as the men separated and headed in different directions.
Ranaan then listened to the sounds of the street: the tiny rustlings of what he hoped were animals, the faint voices of an argument somewhere inside the house he stood beside, the trickle of water or sewage somewhere below.
Caution and fear fought the need to discover Fareeh’s fate. Finally, certain that the attackers were gone, he emerged from the doorway. He crept along the wall to the corner and peered into the lane. There were too many shadowed places there for him to be sure no one waited for him. With heart hammering, he forced himself to step into the lane.
His breathing seemed unnaturally loud. He reached the protruding building and peered around it. The lane was dark, but as he stared at the ground he began to make out a man-sized shape.
Fareeh...
Swallowing hard, he slowly made his way toward the shape. It was definitely a man, and the vest was a Dreamweaver’s. Ranaan’s boots made a small, wet sound as he reached the figure. He looked down and saw that the ground glistened faintly, and he recognized the tangy smell in the air. Blood.
The risk that the attackers might return suddenly did not matter. He concentrated and managed to produce a spark of light. The sight of Fareeh’s blankly staring eyes, and the great red pool of blood spreading out from behind the man’s head, shocked Ranaan so badly the light flickered out. He could not breathe properly. He found he was gasping out words as he stared at his dead teacher’s face.
“No. Not Fareeh. It can’t be.”
Then a hand touched his shoulder lightly. Ranaan jumped and spun around, terror suddenly returning. A man stepped back. Ranaan hadn’t heard the stranger approach, hadn’t even noticed the light from the spark hovering above the stranger’s hand.
But the face of the stranger did not belong to one of the attackers. It was a strange face, but the expression on it was one of sympathy. The man glanced over his shoulder.
“Someone’s coming. You’d best come with me.”
Ranaan hesitated and turned back to Fareeh.
“Nothing can help him now. Leave him, or you’ll end up the same.”
Ranaan’s legs obeyed him reluctantly. The stranger grasped his arm and drew him to a door. They moved down a long corridor and entered another lane.
A maze of lanes and passages followed. Time passed. Ranaan’s awareness of their journey came and went. At one point he collected his thoughts enough to ask for his rescuer’s name.
“Amli.”
“You’re from Sennon, then?”
“The south.”
“Why are you helping me?”
“You need it. Where I come from people do not abandon their fellow mortals to thugs or killers, if they can help it.”
Ranaan winced. “He told me to run and get help.”
“Ah. Sorry. I did not mean you, I meant myself. You could not have saved your friend. Neither could I, I must admit. There were too many of them.”
“He knew it. He knew I couldn’t get back in time.”
“That is likely. It is also likely he sent you away to save your life.”
Ranaan shook his head. “I should return to the hospice. I should tell them what happened.”
Amli stopped and placed a hand on his arm. “Those thugs will be waiting for you there. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were waiting outside wherever it is you stay when you’re not at the hospice, too. You are a witness. Did you get a good look at them?”
“Yes.”
“Then you can’t go back. They won’t want to risk that you will identify them.”
Ranaan shuddered. “Do you think the patient we came to see wasn’t real? That it was an ambush?”
“Were you there to treat someone?”
“Yes. We had directions.”
Amli looked grim. “Possibly. T
he sooner I get you off the streets the better.”
They started walking again. Ranaan could not help picturing Fareeh’s body lying in the laneway, abandoned. He couldn’t think beyond that image. When Amli stopped and opened a door, Ranaan let himself be ushered into the bright room beyond.
A middle-aged woman rose to greet Amli. He introduced her as his wife. She hummed with concern at Amli’s story, guided Ranaan to a chair and pressed a mug into his hands. The drink within was unfamiliar and alcoholic, but it tasted sweet and brought a comforting warmth that soothed the ache inside enough so that he could think clearly again.
“Thank you,” he said belatedly. “Both of you.”
The couple smiled. “I’ll put some bedding together for you,” the woman said, then disappeared up a staircase.
Ranaan looked around the narrow room. A brazier burned to one side, and benches were arranged around it, hinting that people gathered here from time to time. He guessed that there was a bedroom or two upstairs. It was a small house, but clean and tidy.
“How long have you been here?” he asked.
Amli filled another mug with the drink. “Nearly a year. I have a stall in the main market. We import spices and pottery.”
A few strange ornaments adorned the walls. They looked out of place. Some of the pots near the brazier were oddly shaped. He examined the mug he was drinking from. The potter’s mark on the base was a picture of one of these odd pots, with a star marked on the side.
A star. Ranaan felt his skin tingle as a possibility occurred to him. His eyes fell to Amli’s neck. Beneath the collar of his tunic was a silver chain - a heavy chain for a heavy pendant.
“You said you’re from the south?” Ranaan said.
“Yes.”
“You’re Pentadrians?”
Amli did not reply straightaway. He regarded Ranaan solemnly, then took the mug from him.
“Why would you think that?”
“You don’t hate Dreamweavers.”
Amli chuckled. “So we can’t be Circlians. Therefore we must be Pentadrians.”
“Fareeh used to say you could tell a Sennon from a southerner because while Sennons tolerate other religions, they still like to pretend they don’t exist.”
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