Priestess of the White

by Trudi Canavan

“Will we go too?” Emerahl asked, keeping her voice weak.

  “Yes, at a distance. We don’t know if the Pentadrians intend to ambush the army. I don’t want to end up in the middle of a battle.”

  “No.”

  “You rest now,” Rozea said soothingly. She lifted the door flap, revealing lines of ordinary soldiers, to Emerahl’s relief. “I doubt we’ll have customers tonight. It sounds as if the army will march all night. We’ll catch up with them tomorrow—ah, there’s Captain Spirano.”

  She leapt up and climbed out. Emerahl turned onto her back and listened to the sound of marching. It went on and on. By the time it had stopped she was sure hours had passed.

  The girls fell silent, probably taking the opportunity to sleep without the constant rocking of the tarn. Emerahl heard the guards challenge Rozea to a game of counters. She listened for a while, gathering her courage, then sat up and used the damp towel to clean her face.

  As she stepped out of the tarn, Rozea looked up.

  “You look better. How do you feel?”

  “Much better,” Emerahl replied. She moved over to the table and looked down at the game. “Counters. You would not believe how old this game is.”

  The guard playing Rozea moved a piece. Emerahl chuckled. “Bad move.”

  The man gave her a hurt look. It was the same guard who had “rescued” her from the deserter she had thrown out of her tarn during the ambush.

  “What would you have done?” Rozea asked.

  Emerahl looked at the guard. “It is his game.”

  “Go ahead,” he said. “Win it for me, and you can have half the takings.”

  She laughed. “Rozea won’t let me keep it.”

  “Of course I will,” the madam said, smiling. She moved the man’s piece back to its former position.

  Emerahl met the woman’s eyes, then looked down at the board. She drew a little magic and sent it out. A black counter slid across the board and flipped on top of another.

  The two guards jumped, then grinned at her. “Clever trick, that,” the friendly one said.

  “Yes.” Rozea was staring at the board. “Very clever.”

  “Yield?” Emerahl asked.

  “Can’t say I have any choice,” Rozea admitted.

  “What?” The guard turned to stare at the board. “Did she win the game for me?”

  “She did.” Rozea pushed a few coins in his direction. “I believe half of that is hers.”

  “Oh, you owe me much more than that, Rozea,” Emerahl replied. “And it’s time you paid up. I’m leaving.”

  The madam leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “We had an agreement.”

  “I’m breaking it.”

  “If you leave now, you go with nothing.”

  Emerahl smiled. “So you’ve said. That’s hardly fair. I’ve earned you quite a sum. If you will not give me the wages I’ve earned, I will take them.”

  Rozea uncrossed her arms and set her hands on her hips. “What are you going to do? Fling counters at me with magic? Your sorcery does not scare me. If you were able to force me into giving you money, you would have done so before now.”

  “Your weakness, Rozea, is that you think others are as selfish and greedy as you. I only stayed to protect the girls. Now that you’ve caught up with the army you’ll be able to hire new guards. You don’t need me anymore.”

  “Need you?” Rozea laughed. “You flatter yourself.”

  Emerahl smiled. “Perhaps. It’s been a long time since I had to use magic to hurt anyone. I don’t like to. I prefer to find ways around it. So I’ll give you one last chance. Give me my wages. Now.”

  “No.”

  Emerahl turned and strode toward the tarn in which Brand and Tide were sleeping.

  “Where are you going?” she heard Rozea demand.

  Emerahl ignored her. She reached the tarn and opened the flap.

  “Wake up, girls.”

  The girls started awake and blinked at her in surprise as she climbed inside.

  “Jade?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m leaving,” Emerahl told them. She turned to the front seat. “Stand up.”

  Tide and Star rose. Emerahl felt under the seat and found a tiny latch. She pulled and the compartment opened. Behind was a collection of boxes.

  Rozea’s face appeared in the doorway. “What are you…stop that!”

  Emerahl drew out one of the boxes. It was encouragingly heavy.

  “Give that to me!” Rozea demanded.

  Emerahl opened the box. The girls hummed with interest as they saw the coins inside. Rozea cursed and started to climb into the tarn.

  With a gesture and a small shove of magic, Emerahl pushed the madam out of the tarn. Rozea toppled backward and was caught by the guards.

  “Stop her!” the woman shouted. “She’s robbing us!”

  “I’m not robbing you,” Emerahl corrected her. “Now, Panilo said you were charging twice what he originally paid me. That’s a hundred…” she paused as the guards reluctantly tried to enter the tarn, and gently pushed them out again “…ren per customer. Since coming to your establishment I’ve had forty-eight customers, many who were richer and more important than Panilo. Let’s make it a nice round five thousand ren, which makes ten gold. I’ll subtract one gold for a month’s food and board—and for the clothing—which I’m sure you’ll give to another girl anyway. I’ll need some change, of course, so…”

  Emerahl began counting, aware that Rozea was standing a few steps away, glaring at her. The girls in the tarn were silent—too surprised to speak.

  “Jade? Jade? Are you sure about this?” Brand asked suddenly, her voice low and urgent with concern. “There’s a battle about to happen. You’ll be all alone.”

  “I’ll be fine. It’s you girls I’m worried about. Don’t let Rozea take any risks. Get yourselves back to Toren as soon as you can.”

  “I don’t understand.” This came from Star. “If you’ve got Gifts enough that you can heal me and take your wages off Rozea, why’d you end up in a brothel?”

  Emerahl looked up at her, then shrugged. “I…I don’t know. Bad luck, I suppose.”

  The question made her uncomfortable, and not just because it might get them thinking of reasons why a healer sorceress might have resorted to prostitution at a time when the priests were searching for someone of that description. She counted the rest of her earnings out in silver and gold, to quicken the task.

  When she had finished, she looked at each of the girls. They still looked confused. She smiled.

  “Take care of yourselves. And take this advice: if you all demand it together, Rozea will have to give you your earnings. Don’t squander it all; put some aside for the future. Never think you don’t have a life outside the brothel. You’re all talented, beautiful women.”

  Brand smiled. “Thanks, Jade. You take care of yourself, too.”

  The others murmured farewells. Emerahl turned away and climbed down out of the tarn. She caught the eye of a servant.

  “Get me a pack, with food and water. And some plain clothes.”

  The man glanced at Rozea. To Emerahl’s surprise, the woman nodded. He hurried away.

  “I guess I shouldn’t force you to stay when you’re so set on leaving,” Rozea said resignedly. “I’m not happy about this, but if you must go, you must go. Should you decide to return to the business at some stage, don’t think you’re unwelcome in my house. I’m not such a fool that I wouldn’t consider employing you again.”

  Emerahl regarded the woman thoughtfully, sensing a sullen respect. Why so friendly now? Perhaps I didn’t take as much money as she expected. I still can’t get used to the way prices have inflated over the last century.

  “I’ll remember that,” she replied. The servant appeared. He thrust a bag into her arms. She gave the contents a quick examination, then hoisted it over her shoulder. “Look after those girls,” she told Rozea. “You don’t deserve them.”

  T
hen she turned her back and started along the road toward Toren.

  44

  As the sun rose above the horizon, light spilled over the Plains of Gold. The shadows of the Circlian priests, priestesses, soldiers and archers stretched out like fingers pointed in accusation toward the mass of black-robed invaders.

  The last shred of lingering weariness disappeared as Tryss watched the two armies draw closer. Of the entire Circlian army, only the Siyee had rested the previous night. It had been a restless sleep even so. Few were able to keep their minds from the coming battle. He suspected that if the landwalkers had stopped their march they might not have gained much rest from the long night either. Even from the air he had seen signs of agitation and nervousness among them.

  Black flapping shapes rose from among the Pentadrians—an evil cloud of potential death. Tryss heard exclamations of dismay around him. He glanced at the men and women nearby. People of his own tribe. Not his family or wife—the Speakers had decided it was too much to ask a flight leader to take his relations into battle—yet tribes were never so large that a Siyee didn’t know every member. It was still hard to think that these people might die if he made a mistake in judgment.

  His stomach clenched. He ignored it and took a deep breath.

  “These black birds have beaks and claws,” he called. “But they must get near us to use them. We have darts and arrows. We will kill them before they reach us.”

  He did not know if his words had any effect. Perhaps their expressions were a little less grim and a little more determined. The birds circled above their masters, waiting for the battle to begin.

  The coming together of the two armies was excruciatingly slow. Tryss watched as landwalker advanced on landwalker, creeping over gently undulating grassland. The Pentadrian army reached the top of a low ridge on one side of a valley and stopped. The Circlians marched up the far side of the valley. They, too, halted.

  The two armies were still.

  Then a lone black-clad figure stepped forward from among the Pentadrians. Sunlight glinted off something hanging about his neck. Tryss noted the five white figures standing before the Circlian army. One moved forward.

  The two met at the bottom of the valley.

  How I wish I could hear that conversation, Tryss thought. Are they offering each other a chance to back off? Are they tossing threats and boasts of strength back and forth like children? This was supposed to be a religious war, he reminded himself. Perhaps they’re having a theological argument. He began to imagine how it might go.

  “My gods are real.”

  “No they’re not; mine are.”

  “Yours aren’t real.”

  “Are too!”

  He choked back a laugh. I’m being silly now. This is serious. People are going to die.

  All humor fled at that thought. As the two figures parted, Tryss’s stomach clenched again. He watched them rejoin their armies.

  The distant sound of horns rang out. The Pentadrian army surged forward and the Circlians followed suit. As the roar of voices reached Tryss, Sirri’s whistle pierced the air. It was time for the Siyee to join the battle. As one, the Siyee dropped into a dive.

  The two armies had not yet met, but Tryss could see the air in the valley twist and glow as magical attacks met magical shields. Strange tearing, shrieking noises reached him and the occasional boom sent a vibration through the air.

  It must be deafening down there, he thought.

  The black cloud spiralling above the Pentadrian army fragmented and rushed upward. Part of it sped toward Tryss. He forgot all else as the black birds drew rapidly closer. Whistling orders, he directed his flight to fly straight for them, then set his fingers firmly on the levers of his harness.

  “Attack!”

  The spring of his harness sang. He heard the twang of others. A swarm of darts enveloped the black birds. Tryss cheered as the creatures shrieked and fell. He gave the signal to veer aside, grinning as his people whooped with triumph and indulged in a few fancy acrobatic moves.

  Then he heard a shriek of pain and his heart sank like a stone. He twisted around to see that some of the birds had survived and had latched onto the legs of one of the Siyee. Their weight was dragging her down and they were clawing along her trousers toward her wings.

  Not sure what he could do but hoping he would think of something, Tryss dived toward her. He could hardly use his hands to remove the birds. Instead he clenched his teeth, folded his arms and barrelled into the girl’s legs. He heard squawks and a yell of surprise, and felt himself falling. Extending his arms, he caught the wind and turned back to see what had happened.

  The Siyee woman was free. Her legs were bleeding. He could see a bird flying below them, unharmed but clearly stunned. Tryss quickly caught his blowpipe between his teeth, sucked in a dart and let it loose.

  The bird gave a squawk of protest and surprise as it was hit. Tryss did not wait to observe the poison take effect. He looked up and called to his flight. They moved closer. Aside from scratches they were all alive and uninjured.

  Relieved, he looked past them and caught his breath in dismay. The sky was full of Siyee and birds, some locked in savage struggles. As he watched he saw three Siyee fall.

  He also saw that two other flights as well as his had managed to get past the deadly birds. They now flew above the battle. He remembered Sirri’s instructions.

  “The birds will try to keep you occupied. Don’t let them distract you. Aim for their masters, the black priests and priestesses. They control the birds, so try to kill them first. Once their source of control is gone, the birds may become harmless.”

  With an effort he turned away from the battle and called for his flight to follow him. They did not argue, but their expressions were grim. Tryss looked down at the Pentadrian army below and considered how he should best direct their first attack.

  Blood was everywhere. The air was full of the spray and reek of it. Faces, clothes and swords were slick with it. The grass was no longer yellow, but an evil orange-red.

  Another black-clad monster came. The soldier lifted his shield to block the attack and swung his sword. The motions were familiar and comfortable. Years of training finally proving to be useful. His sword was an extension of his arm. He felt his blade glide through flesh and shatter bone. It was a much more satisfying feeling than the resistant bounce of padded wood.

  The Pentadrian dropped to his knees, gurgling as blood filled his lungs. A yank released the sword. A stab through the neck stilled the hand groping for a knife.

  Sudden panting to his left. The soldier ducked and spun about, catching the attacker in the stomach. The man’s eyes bulged in surprise. Coward, attacking from behind. He left that one to die slowly.

  A glance told him that the fighters around him were now mostly of his own side. He turned and searched for the enemy. A distant growling caught at his attention. Far to the right he saw Toren soldiers fall beneath impossibly large creatures. Vorns. He stared in disbelief, and turned to run.

  Then his foot caught on something. He fell and landed face down and cursed into the mud. Heat seared his ears. He reached up to cover them. The touch of his muddy hands was wonderfully soothing, but it did not muffle what came next. Screaming. Unearthly screaming that just went on and on.

  Something terrible had happened.

  He lifted his head. Painfully dry, smoky air filled his lungs. It set him coughing. He dragged himself into a crouch and looked around.

  The grass was gone…no, it had become shrivelled, blackened tussocks. Black shapes covered the ground. Some of them were moving. Twitching and writhing. The source of the screaming. He tasted bile as he realized what they were.

  Men. The fighters he had been walking with a moment ago.

  He hauled himself to his feet. At once he understood what had happened. The burned grass and dead—dying—men formed a long, wide line back toward the enemy. A sorcerer’s strike. Deadly magic.

  No training could save a soldier fr
om this.

  He had been fortunate to have been at the edge of it. His armor and heavy clothing, and falling face down in the mud, had saved him, though his ears burned fiercely. Looking down, he saw the outstretched hand of the Pentadrian who had tripped him. The man’s face was charred as black as his clothes.

  Setting his jaw, he picked up his sword, still warm from the strike, and started toward his less-fortunate comrades.

  No link between Auraya and the other White had ever been this strong or complete.

  They worked as one, their powers directed by Juran. It was surprisingly easy. There was no imposing of will. They simply opened their minds to him and followed his instructions. In return, he had four extra minds and pairs of eyes to call upon when making decisions, and four extra positions from which to attack.

  It was proving to be an effective way to coordinate their efforts. And it was almost thrilling to work so smoothly with the others. No misunderstandings. No mistakes.

  Yet they still had limitations. The enemy had already found Mairae’s, and at one point she had been forced to leave soldiers vulnerable in order to protect herself. Their deaths had distressed Mairae, and shocked them all, but their linked sense of purpose ensured they did not falter.

  Rian, too, was struggling. Juran was constantly forced to intervene whenever one of the more powerful black sorcerers attacked Rian or Mairae. Auraya had managed to defend herself against all attacks by the enemy sorcerers so far, but she knew the Pentadrian leader was stronger than she was. She, too, would need help if he threw all his power at her.

  He hadn’t, however. Perhaps he did not have enough strength to protect himself as well as attack her. He might still do it if the other black sorcerers shielded him.

  She looked at her fellow White, all standing calmly, then at the Pentadrian sorcerers far across the valley.

  Five black sorcerers, Auraya thought. Five White. A coincidence? No, more likely they waited until there were enough of them to face us.

  At Juran’s instruction, Auraya let loose a blast of power at one of the sorcerers. She sensed a shift in the man’s shield as the other sorcerers helped him protect himself.