Trudi Canavan - Priestess of the White

The Dreamweaver sat back on his heels and regarded Tryss critically. Then he rose and turned away.

“Wait.”

Tryss hauled himself to his feet. Belatedly he realized what he had done, and paused to look in wonder at his arms and body. Then he hurried after the Dreamweaver, Drilli following.

“Wait. Thank you. You’ve saved my life.”

The man’s eyes roved about. He muttered something. Tryss frowned and moved closer.

“No. Not safe there. But Jayim. No. Forget. You must leave before he returns with Arleej.” The Dreamweaver paused and his voice became thin and weak. “One more. One more.” Then he shook his head. “Enough. The sun is rising. It is time.”

The Dreamweaver was talking to himself. Were they always like this? Perhaps only when they were working. Tryss hoped so. There was something disturbing about the idea of being healed by a madman. Shaking his head sadly, Tryss returned to Drilli.

“I don’t know if he heard me. I don’t know if he can,” he told her.

She nodded, and her eyes roamed over his body. “What he did . . . it was amazing. Do . . . do you think you can fly?”

He grinned. “Let’s find out.”

She frowned with concern. “Wait. What if it’s too soon . . .”

But he was already running. Racing across the battlefield with his arms spread wide. He felt a light wind catch his wings and he leapt into the air.

As Drilli joined him, he whooped with joy and soared up into the sky.

After walking for an hour the White stopped on top of a low hill. Auraya looked back. Thin trails of smoke were the only clue to the camp’s location. They moved to form a wide circle.

“Chaia, Huan, Lore, Yranna, Saru,” Juran spoke. “We thank you for giving us the means to defend Northern Ithania. We thank you for protecting our people from the Pentadrian invaders.”

“We thank you,” Auraya murmured with the others.

“We have fought in your names and we have won. Now, as we face the aftermath of this battle, we need your guidance even more.”

“Guide us.”

“We ask that you appear now, so that we may ask for wisdom.”

Auraya held her breath. She could not help it, even now. A glow filled the circle. It coalesced into five figures.

All five, she thought. I haven’t seen them all together since my Choosing .

The gods’ features appeared. They were smiling. She could not help smiling too. Chaia stood facing Juran.

:We are pleased at your victory, he said. You have all done well. And Auraya . . . The god turned to regard her. You have surpassed even our expectations .

Auraya felt her face warming. She lowered her eyes, amused by her own embarrassment at his praise.

:What is it you wish to ask? The question came from Huan.

“We have allowed the remaining Pentadrians to surrender and return to their lands, as you instructed,” Juran told them, “but we fear the consequences of doing so.”

:The Pentadrians may regain their strength and invade again, Lore said. If they are determined to, they will. Killing this army would not stop another coming.

“Then if they invade again, perhaps we should not only drive them away, but rid the world of their cult,” Rian said.

:There may come a time when that is unavoidable. You are not yet ready for that battle, Chaia replied.

“When Auraya witnessed the Pentadrian army emerge from the mines, she saw what appeared to be a god,” Dyara said. “But that is impossible. What was it? An illusion?”

:It is not impossible, Yranna replied.

“But there are no other gods.”

:None of the old ones survived but us, Yranna agreed. But new ones can arise .

“Five of them?” Dyara asked.

:It is unlikely, Saru murmured.

“But not impossible.”

:No . Chaia looked at the other gods. We will investigate .

They nodded.

Chaia turned back to Juran.

:For now, return to Jarime and enjoy the peace you have fought so hard for. We will speak to you again soon . He glanced at Dyara, then his eyes met Auraya’s. His smile widened for a moment, before his attention moved to Rian and Mairae.

Then the five glowing figures vanished.

Juran sighed and broke the circle by moving toward Dyara. “Let’s hope they find nothing.”

“Yes,” Dyara agreed. “Though if the Pentadrians do follow real gods, they must be feeling a bit unhappy with them now. They lost.”

“Mmmm,” Juran replied. “Will they again?”

“Of course they will,” Mairae said lightly. She smiled as they all turned to regard her. “We have Auraya.”

Auraya sighed. “Will you stop saying that, Mairae? I didn’t do anything extraordinary. The Pentadrians made a mistake, that’s all.”

Mairae grinned. “The enemy is going to take back stories of the ferocious flying priestess who killed their leader.”

“I didn’t fly during the battle.”

“That hardly matters. Think what a deterrent for invasion that will be. Your name will be used to frighten children into obedience for generations.”

“How wonderful,” Auraya said dryly.

“If I don’t get some breakfast soon you’ll find out how ferocious a priestess can be,” Dyara growled.

Juran gave Dyara a bemused look. “That must be avoided at all costs. Come on, then. Let’s go home.” The Dreamweaver robes Emerahl had stolen were a bit big for her, but they had kept her sufficiently safe from priestly notice while she tended the sick. She had kept to the Pentadrian side of the battleground, which reduced the number of Circlians she treated. There had been no sign of the White for hours. They were probably discussing the battle among their allies.

She had no bag of medicines, but managed well enough with magic. It was satisfying work. She hadn’t been free to use her Gifts in this way for . . . a long time. Just before dawn she had decided it was time to leave, but at the edge of the battlefield she had discovered a Siyee still clinging to life and stopped to help him.

By the time she had finished, the sun had risen. Delicate light filled the valley. She had wanted to leave the field when it was still dark, but it shouldn’t matter if anyone saw her go. The Dreamweavers might wonder why one of their kind was abandoning the field, but they were probably too involved in their work to notice. No one else would know enough about Dreamweavers to wonder why she was leaving.

She glanced around. Only one Dreamweaver stood nearby, his back to her. He was looking up at the sky. She frowned. There was something familiar about him. Perhaps he was one of the Dreamweavers from the group she had run into.

A voice reached her, low and strained. She moved closer and felt a shiver run down her back.

I know that voice .

But it could not belong to the man she had known. What was he saying, anyway? She stepped over a corpse and crept closer.

“—must go. No. She can help. No. She will only make it worse. I can’t—”

The voice changed from high to low, weak to forceful, stranger to familiar. He was ranting at himself like a madman. As he cast about he turned to face her and she gasped.

“Mirar!”

It was impossible. He was dead. But as she said his name his gaze cleared and she saw recognition in his eyes.

“Emerahl?”

“You’re . . . you’re . . .”

“Alive? In a way.” He shrugged, then his gaze became keen. “What are you doing here?”

She smiled crookedly. “Long story.”

“Will you . . . can you help me?”

“Of course. What do you need?”

“I need you to take me away from here. No matter who I turn into. No matter how I protest. Using all your magic, if you need to.”