Trudi Canavan - Priestess of the White

Tanara had shown him to a room and left him there to rest. Leiard could not resist the temptation to enter a trance in order to skim the thoughts of the urban dwellers around him. They were like people everywhere, immersed in lives that were as varied as the fish in the ocean. Bright and dark. Hard and easy. Generous and selfish. Hopeful. Determined. Resigned. He had also sensed the mind of his hostess in the kitchen below, thinking she must call Leiard to dinner soon. She was also hoping he would help her son.

Taking another deep breath, Leiard opened his eyes. Jayim’s teacher had died last winter and no Dreamweaver had chosen to replace him. Leiard knew he must disappoint them again. He would be returning to the village tomorrow. Even if he had wanted to take on another student, Jayim would have to return with him. The Bakers would probably rather Jayim remained untaught than have him leave them.

If Jayim wanted to come with me, would I take him? Leiard felt the pull of obligation. Dreamweavers were few in number now, and it would be a shame if this youth gave up for lack of teachers. Perhaps when he met the boy he would consider it. He had, after all, been prepared to teach Auraya if she had wanted it.

Standing up, he stretched and moved to a narrow bench where Tanara had placed a large basin of water and some rough towels. He washed himself slowly, dressed in his spare set of tunic and trousers and shrugged into his Dreamweaver vest. Leaving the room, he moved into the communal area at the center of the house and found Tanara sitting on an old cushion, her brow furrowed with concentration. Bread was cooking on a large flat stone suspended on two bricks. There was no fire beneath the stones, so she must be using magic to heat them.

“Dreamweaver Leiard,” she said, the wrinkles deepening around her eyes as she smiled. “We don’t have any servants and I prefer to cook than buy that muck from the shop next door. I’ve only eaten their food twice, and was sick both times. They are prompt with the rent, though, so I shouldn’t complain.” She nodded toward a doorway. “Jayim has returned.”

Leiard turned to see a young man sprawled on an old wooden bench in the next room. His Dreamweaver vest lay on the floor beside him. Sweat stained his tunic.

“Jayim, this is Dreamweaver Leiard,” Tanara called out. “Keep him company while I finish here.”

The young Dreamweaver looked up and, seeing Leiard, blinked in surprise. He straightened on the bench as Leiard moved into the room. “Hello,” he said.

“Greetings,” Leiard replied. No traditional welcome from this one, then. Was it lack of training, or simply disdain for ritual?

Leiard sat in a chair opposite Jayim. He looked at the vest. The boy followed his gaze, then quickly picked it up and draped it over the back of the bench.

“Bit hot today, isn’t it?” he said. “Have you been to the city before?”

“Yes. Long ago,” Leiard replied.

“How long ago?”

Leiard frowned. “I’m not sure exactly.”

The boy shrugged. “Then it must be a long time ago. Has it changed a lot?”

“I noted a few changes, but I cannot judge well as I have seen only part of the city since I arrived this afternoon,” Leiard replied. “It sounds as though eating at the street shops is as perilous as it has always been.”

Jayim chuckled. “Yes, but there are some good ones. Will you be staying long?”

Leiard shook his head. “No, I leave tomorrow.”

The boy did not hide his relief well. “Back to . . . where was it?”

“Oralyn.”

“Where is that?”

“Near the Dunwayan border, at the base of the mountains.”

Jayim opened his mouth to speak, but froze at the sound of knocking. “Someone’s at the door, Mother.”

“Then answer it.”

“But . . .” Jayim looked at Leiard. “I’m keeping our guest company.”

Tanara sighed and stood up. She crossed to the main door, out of sight. Leiard listened to the slap of her sandals on the tiled floor. He heard the sound of a door opening, then female voices. Two sets of footsteps returned.

“We have a customer,” Tanara announced as she entered the room. A woman wrapped in a generous swathe of dark cloth entered. The cloth was draped over her head, hiding her face.

“I haven’t come for healing,” the woman said. “I am here to see an old friend.”

The voice sent a shiver up Leiard’s spine, but he was not sure why. He found himself rising to his feet. The woman pulled back the cloth from her head and smiled.

“Greetings, Dreamweaver Leiard.”

Her face had changed. She had lost all the roundness of childhood, revealing an elegant jaw and brow and high cheekbones. Her hair had been dressed into an elaborate style favored by the rich and fashionable. She seemed taller.

But her eyes were the same. Large, expressive and bright with intelligence, they gazed at him searchingly. She must be wondering if I remember her, he thought. I do, but not like this .

Auraya had grown into a strikingly beautiful woman. It would never have been apparent in the village. She would have seemed too fragile and thin. The fashion of the city suited her better.

The fashion of the city? She did not come here to be fashionable, but to become a priestess . At that thought he remembered his hosts. Knowing they had a Circlian priestess in their house might frighten them—especially a high priestess. At least Auraya had the sense to cover her priestess’s clothes . He turned to Tanara.

“Is there a place the lady and I might talk privately?”

Tanara smiled. “Yes. On the roof. It’s nice out there on a summer evening. Follow me.”

The woman led them through the communal room to the staircase opposite the main door. As he emerged onto the roof, Leiard was surprised to find it was covered with potted plants and worn wooden seats. He could see neighboring apartments and other people relaxing in rooftop gardens.

“I’ll get you some cool drinks,” Tanara said, then disappeared downstairs.

Auraya sat down opposite Leiard and sighed. “I should have sent you a message warning that I was coming. Or arranged to meet you somewhere. But as soon as I learned you were here . . .” She smiled crookedly. “I had to come straightaway.”

He nodded. “You need to talk about your mother with someone who knew her,” he guessed.

Her smile faded. “Yes. How did she . . . ?”

“Age and sickness.” He spread his hands. “Her illness took a greater toll as she grew older. Eventually it was going to defeat her.”

Auraya nodded. “So that was all? Nothing else?”

He shook his head. “It is easy, after a long time keeping a sickness at bay, to be surprised when it claims a person.”

She grimaced. “Yes—especially when the timing is . . . unfortunate.” She let out a long sigh. “How is Father?”

“He was well when I left. Grieving, of course, but also accepting.”

“You told the initiate that you found the message in the hands of a drunken courier. Do you know why Priest Avorim has not contacted me?”

“The courier claims he is sick.”

She nodded. “He must be so old now. Poor Avorim. I gave him such a hard time during his lessons. And you.” She looked up and gazed at him, smiling faintly. “It’s strange. I recognize you, but you look different.”

“How so?”

“Younger.”

“Children think all adults are old.”

“Especially when those adults have white hair,” she said. She pulled at the cloth covering her. “It’s a bit hot to be so dressed up,” she continued. “I was worried that if people saw me arrive it would bring your hosts trouble.”

“I’m not sure what it is like for Dreamweavers in the city.”