Trudi Canavan - Priestess of the White

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.