Trudi Canavan - Priestess of the White

“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.