Priestess of the White

by Trudi Canavan

  “Sorry, Mischief,” he said to the veez. “I must leave you. I need to tell Juran what I know.”

  He gave Mischief one last scratch, then rose and hurried from the room.

  After Speaker Sirri left, Auraya slowly walked around the bower the Siyee had made her. It was a marvellous creation, so simple yet so beautiful. They had made hers twice the size of a normal bower, measuring it against the landwalker named Gremmer who had delivered the offer of an alliance to them.

  It was dome-shaped, made of long, flexible supports, with one end buried in the ground and the other secured against the trunk of an immense tree. A thin membrane stretched between the supports. Auraya could not guess if it was of animal or plant origin. During the day, light filtered through, filling the room with a warm glow. Membranes had also been stretched between the outer frame and a pole sunk into the ground near the trunk of the tree, dividing the house into three rooms. She ran her fingers lightly over the walls and their flexible supports, then turned to regard the simple furniture.

  Chairs made of wooden frames with woven material slung between filled the main room. A single slab of rock lay in the center of the floor with a depression in the center for cooking in. Most Siyee families had a member with enough magical ability to learn the Gift of heating stone. The bed in the second room was a length of material slung between a sturdy support wedged into the floor and a loop around the trunk at the center of the room. The blankets on the bed were woven from the fine down of a small domestic animal and were deliciously soft. They beckoned to her. It was late. Tomorrow would bring a new challenge: speaking to the Siyee at their Gathering.

  Stripping off her white circ she changed into a simple tunic she had brought for sleeping in. Since leaving Jarime she hadn’t bothered trying to dress her hair in the typically elaborate Hanian fashion, since all her hard work was soon blown undone when she was flying. Instead she plaited it into a single tail, which she now undid.

  She managed to get into her sling bed without too much trouble. After arranging the cushions and blankets comfortably, she relaxed and let her thoughts wander. Time passed and sleep would not come. Danjin’s news had only added to her disquiet over the communication she’d had with Juran earlier that day. Every day it seemed more likely that Northern Ithania was facing the threat of war with the Pentadrians. And Juran had brought Mirae back from Somrey for fear she was vulnerable to an attack by one of the black sorcerors.

  And here I am, trying to convince the Siyee to ally with us. If they do and war comes, they will have to join us in the fight. They are not a strong or robust people. How can I ask them to fight when it is likely some of them will die as a consequence?

  She sighed and shifted a little. It would be unfair to the Siyee to keep the possibility of war from them until after they made their decision. Telling them of it might dissuade them from an alliance with the White, however. She would have to make them see that turning down the alliance and avoiding involvement in a war would not save them from the Pentadrians. If the Toren settlers could present a threat to them, so could invaders.

  The Siyee might decide to take that risk. After all, the Pentadrians might not invade Northern Ithania. However, she couldn’t gamble that war wouldn’t come and that she didn’t need to warn the Siyee. Even learning that she had kept the possibility of war from them would anger them.

  It almost seems as if the Pentadrians have spread the idea they’re planning a war in order to dissuade anyone from allying with the White, she thought. Then she shook her head. That is too devious to be true. The Pentadrians haven’t even visited Si. They’ve shown no signs of wanting the Siyee, who worship Huan, as allies.

  She shifted again, her sling bed rocking with the movement.

  I will have to tell the Siyee of the threat of war eventually, she thought. If I choose the right time, perhaps I can still convince them the alliance is beneficial to them. After all, with the gods on our side we can’t lose.

  Holding onto that thought, she finally surrendered to the call of sleep.

  :Auraya.

  The voice was a whisper in her mind.

  :Auraya.

  This time it was stronger. She struggled awake and blinked at the darkened room. It was empty, and when she searched for minds, she found none close by. Had it been a mental call?

  No, it had the feel of a dream about it, she decided. I think I dreamed that someone called me. She closed her eyes. Time stretched out, and she forgot about the dream.

  :Auraya.

  She felt herself rising toward consciousness, like floating up to the surface of water. Her awareness of the caller’s mind faded. She opened her eyes, but did not bother searching for the speaker. He was limited to the dream.

  He? She felt her heart skip a beat. Who else would be calling for her in a dream but Leiard?

  Abruptly, Auraya was wide awake, her heart racing. Should I answer? If I did would we be dream-linking? Dream-linking is a crime.

  So is using a Dreamweaver’s services, she thought. A ridiculous law. I want to know what dream-linking is. What better way than to join one?

  But if I engage in a dream link, I will be breaking a law. And so will he.

  It’s not as if I’m a helpless victim. I could make him stop at any time.

  Or could I?

  She lay awake for some time. Part of her longed to speak to Leiard, but another hesitated to. Even if she wanted to, she was too awake now. She doubted she would fall asleep again easily.

  Some time later she heard her name called and knew simultaneously that she had managed to fall asleep, and that she had to talk to Leiard.

  :Leiard? she ventured.

  A sense of personality grew stronger, flowing around her like thick, sweet smoke. It was Leiard and yet it was not. It was the man she had glimpsed on her last night in Jarime. The warm, passionate man hidden beneath the dignified Dreamweaver exterior.

  :I cannot be anything but myself in this state, he told her.

  :Nor can I, I am guessing, she replied.

  :No. Here you can show the truth, or hide it, but not lie.

  :So this is a dream link?

  :It is. Do you forgive me this? I only wished to be with you in some way.

  :I forgive you. But do you forgive me?

  :For what?

  :For that night we…

  Memories flashed through her mind, more vivid than they were when she was conscious. She not only saw their limbs entangled, but felt the slide of skin against skin. From Leiard came amusement and a deep affection.

  :What is there to forgive?

  More memories washed over her, this time from a different vantage point. What this revealed was startling. To experience pleasure from his point of view…

  :We both wanted it. I think that was clear, he said.

  :What is happening? she asked. These memories are so vivid.

  :They always are, in the dream state.

  :I can touch, taste…

  :Dreams are powerful. They can bring solace to the grieving, confidence to the weak—

  :Justice to the wrongdoer?

  :Once, yes, they had that role. No longer is it so. Dream links still allow loved ones to meet when they are parted. They are the Dreamweavers’ alternative to the priest ring.

  :I would have given you a ring, but I didn’t think you’d accept it.

  :Do you accept this? We are breaking a law.

  She paused.

  :Yes. We must talk. What we did—wonderful though it was—will have consequences.

  :I know.

  :I should not have invited you.

  :I should not have accepted.

  :Not that I regret it.

  :Nor I.

  :But if people find out…I would not like this to cause you harm—or your people.

  :Nor I.

  She hesitated, then made herself say what she ought to say.

  :We won’t do it again.

  :No.

  They both fell silent.

&nbs
p; :You’re right, she said. We can’t lie in this place.

  He reached out to touch her face.

  :But we can be ourselves.

  She shivered at his touch. It awoke more memories.

  :I wish you were here.

  :So do I. I am, in one form at least. Memories, as I said before, are more vivid in the dream state. Are there any you wish to relive?

  She smiled.

  :Just a few.

  22

  The sun was a bright ball softened by the mist shrouding the city. Few people were about, and those who were hesitated before they passed Leiard, no doubt wondering what a Dreamweaver was doing wandering through the docks on such a morning.

  What he was doing was thinking. Remembering dreams of remembering…and feeling guilty about them.

  He had decided days ago that he would not reach out to her in dreams, but last night his subconscious had decided otherwise. By the time he had realized what he was doing, it was too late. She had answered him.

  Even then, he should have had the will to stop, but Auraya had embraced the dream link so naturally and completely. She was impossible to deny, and the night’s pleasures had been too good to resist.

  She has a good imagination, that one, a voice in his mind murmured. It is a pity she’s a tool of the gods.

  Leiard frowned. She is more than just a tool.

  No? Do you think that if the gods ordered her to kill you, she’d refuse?

  Yes.

  You are a fool.

  Leiard stopped and looked out over the water. Ships swayed in the water, ghostly in the mist.

  I am a fool, he agreed.

  Well, it’s been a while.

  Leiard decided to ignore that. I shouldn’t have done it, he thought. We broke the law.

  A stupid law.

  A law nonetheless. A law that is punishable by death.

  I doubt she’ll be punished. As for you…once again, you were clever enough to ensure it was her decision. She’ll blame herself for encouraging you to break that law, if she has any conscience.

  It wasn’t her fault.

  No? So you think you’re so charming she lost all will and couldn’t resist you?

  Oh, be quiet! Leiard scowled and crossed his arms. This was ridiculous. He was arguing with a memory of Mirar. Which was happening more often now. He hadn’t been linking with Jayim for fear of the boy learning of his night with Auraya, but Arleej had said he must in order to regain his sense of identity. Was this why Mirar’s personality had become so…so…

  Protective? Because I know you and Auraya plan to sneak away to secret locations in the city to rut yourselves silly once she gets back. Because you’re a Dreamweaver, and when your affair is discovered my people will pay the price.

  They won’t discover it, Leiard replied. Not if the other White never get a chance to read my mind. I will have to give up the role of adviser.

  Which will make them suspicious. They’ll want to question you. To ask why.

  I’ll send a message. I’ll tell them I need more time to train Jayim.

  A likely story.

  They won’t spare me a second thought. I’m just an ordinary Dreamweaver. They’ll probably be relieved to get rid of me. They’ll—

  “Leiard?”

  The voice came from close by. Leiard blinked as he realized he was at the end of a pier. He turned to see Jayim standing behind him.

  “Jayim?” he said. “What are you doing here?”

  The boy’s forehead crinkled. “Looking for you.” He glanced from side to side. “Who were you talking to?”

  Leiard stared at his student. Talking? He swallowed and realized his throat did feel as it did when he had been speaking for some time.

  “Nobody,” he said, hoping that he didn’t look as disturbed as he felt. He shrugged. “Just reciting formulas aloud.”

  Jayim nodded, accepting Leiard’s explanation. “Are we going to have lessons today?”

  Leiard looked out at the ships. The fog was thinner now, rising in drifts. It was impossible to tell how long he had been standing here. A few hours, from the position of the sun.

  “Yes. More cures, I think. Yes, you can never know too many by heart.”

  Jayim grimaced. “No links?”

  Leiard shook his head. “Not yet.”

  Emerahl was dragged, protesting, from the depths of sleep by a persistent hammering. Reaching a state of befuddled awareness, she recognized the sound as that of a fist making contact with a door. She opened her eyes and muttered a curse. The one advantage of staying up late and sleeping all morning was that she did not have the tower dream, but occasionally the landlord came early for the rent.

  “I hear you,” she called. “I’m coming.”

  With an effort, she pushed herself upright. Immediately she felt the cloying ropes of sleep loosen. She blinked and rubbed her eyes until they remained open, yawned several times, then, throwing on her dirty old tawl, went to the door.

  As soon as the latch clicked the door swung inward. Emerahl stumbled back, gathering magic quickly to form an invisible shield. The intruder was a large middle-aged woman dressed in fine clothing. Behind her stood two broad-shouldered men, obviously hired guards.

  No feeling of violent intent came from this rich stranger and her guards, only curiosity and the arrogance of people with wealth or power. Emerahl stared at the woman.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  The woman ignored the question. She glanced around the room, eyebrows rising with disdain, then gave Emerahl an assessing look. “So you’re the whore Panilo’s discovered.” She pursed her lips. “Take off the tawl.”

  Emerahl made no move to obey. She met the woman’s eyes levelly. “Who are you?” she repeated.

  The stranger crossed her arms and thrust out her generous bosom. “I am Rozea Peporan.”

  She obviously expected Emerahl to know the name. After a short silence, the woman frowned and uncrossed her arms, placing her hands on her hips instead.

  “I own and run the richest brothel in Porin.”

  A brothel? Opportunity comes knocking quickly in Toren. Or hammering, as it was.

  “Is that so?” Emerahl said.

  “Yes.”

  Emerahl put a knuckle to her lips. “Panilo is the trader who bought my services the last few nights.”

  “That’s right. He’s a regular customer. At least he was until recently. He has an eye for quality so I’m always suspicious if my spies tell me he’s been visiting Main Street.”

  “So you’re here to tell me to move on, then?”

  Rozea smiled, but her eyes remained cold. “That depends. Take off your tawl. And your shift.”

  Emerahl shrugged out of the garments and tossed them on the bed, then drew her shoulders back and turned to display her naked body. She didn’t have to strain her senses to detect the guards’ interest. The way the woman examined her body was impersonal and calculating. Emerahl turned full circle and tossed her head.

  “Skinny,” Rozea said. “Good bones. I can always work with good bones. No scars…What is your natural hair color?”

  “Red.”

  “Then why dye it?”

  “To make it redder. So I stand out.”

  “It looks cheap. My establishment isn’t cheap. My girls can strip it back and redye it a natural shade. Were any of your customers diseased?”

  “No.”

  “You?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Get dressed.”

  Emerahl moved to her chair, where she had draped her green tunic after washing and drying it last night. “What makes you think I want to work in your establishment?” she asked as she donned it.

  “Safety. A clean room. Better clients. Better money.”

  “I have Gifts. I can protect myself,” she stated. She gave Rozea a sidelong look. “What kind of money are we talking about?”

  Rozea chuckled. “You’ll earn no more than fifty ren to start with.”

  Emerahl s
hrugged. “Panilo paid me that. I want a hundred.”

  “Sixty, with new clothes and some jewelry.”

  “Eighty.”

  “Sixty,” Rozea said firmly. “No more.”

  Emerahl sat on the edge of the bed and pretended to consider. “No rough customers. I hear people like you let rich men get nasty with their girls if they offer enough money. Not with me. I have Gifts. If they try anything, I’ll kill them.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed, then she shrugged. “No rough types, then. Are we agreed?”

  “And no diseased ones. No money’s worth sickness.”

  Rozea smiled. “I do my best to keep my girls safe,” she said proudly. “Customers are encouraged to bathe beforehand, which gives us the opportunity to examine them. Any customers known to be diseased are banned from the house. All girls are given cleansing herbals. If you are Gifted enough, there are other methods you can be taught.” She gave Emerahl a lofty look. “We have a reputation to uphold as the cleanest brothel in Porin.”

  Emerahl nodded, impressed. “Sounds reasonable. I’ll give it a try.”

  “Fetch your things, then. I have a platten waiting.”

  Looking around, Emerahl recalled that her purse was in a pocket of the tunic and the sea bell was sewn into her sleeve. She rose and walked to the door. Rozea glanced at the discarded tawl and shift, then smiled and led her out.

  “We tell our customers our girls are from good families that fell on hard times,” Rozea said as they descended the stairs. “You have an old-fashioned way of talking which will support that illusion. You’ll be taught all the social graces of high society. If you prove an apt student we’ll teach you a language or two.”

  Emerahl smiled wryly. “You’ll find I’m a fast learner.”

  “Good. Can you read?”

  “A little.” She hoped she was right. If the language had changed over a century, how much had writing changed?

  “Write?”

  “A little.”

  “Sing?”

  “Well enough to frighten birds from the crops.”