Trudi Canavan - Priestess of the White

Rian smiled faintly. “The alliance is holding firm. I have nothing to report.”

“And Sennon?”

“The emperor is still considering our proposal. I don’t believe he is any closer to a decision than he was five years ago.”

“That’s no surprise,” Dyara said, chuckling. “Nothing in Sennon ever happens quickly.”

Rian nodded. “Sennon was always going to be more difficult to court than Somrey. How much value can we place in an alliance with a country that cannot decide who or what to worship?”

Juran nodded in agreement. “I still feel it is best left to last. Perhaps, in the end, Sennon will fall into line when all the rest of Northern Ithania is united.” He straightened and smiled. “That leaves us with two more nations to discuss.”

Auraya noted that Mairae’s gaze had brightened, while Dyara’s lips had compressed into a skeptical smile.

“Si and Borra.” Juran linked the fingers of his hands together. “Several months ago I sent a courier to each country to deliver invitations for an alliance.”

Auraya felt a twinge of excitement. Stories of the winged people of the southern mountains and the water-breathing sea folk had always fascinated her. As she had grown older they had seemed too fantastic to be true, but both Priest Avorim and Leiard had assured her that such peoples did exist, though their description was often exaggerated.

“I’ll be impressed if any of those messengers arrive,” Dyara muttered darkly. Auraya looked at her in surprise. “Not that I think they’ll murder them,” she assured Auraya. “But the homes of the Siyee and Elai are not easy to reach, and they are suspicious and shy of ordinary humans.”

“I have chosen my couriers carefully,” Juran said. “Both have visited or traded with these peoples previously.”

At that, Dyara looked impressed. Juran smiled, then placed both hands on the table. His expression became serious.

“We have not yet considered the three lands of Southern Ithania: Mur, Avven and Dekkar.”

“The lands of the Pentadrian cult?” Rian asked, his expression disapproving.

“Yes.” Juran grimaced. “Their way of life and ethics may be incompatible with ours. The gods want all Northern Ithania united, not all Ithania. However, once Northern Ithania is united, the southern lands will be our neighbors. I have had our advisers gather information about these lands. Maps, drawings and reports of their beliefs and rituals.”

“Are there any descriptions of orgies?” Mairae asked.

“Mairae!” Dyara said reproachfully.

Juran’s lips had twitched into a smile at the question. “You’ll be disappointed to hear that the rumors of orgies are exaggerated. They have fertility rites, but only for married couples . Two does not make an orgy.”

Mairae shrugged. “At least I know I’m not missing out,” she murmured. Rian’s eyes rolled.

“Thinking of becoming a Pentadrian?” he asked, amused, then continued without waiting for an answer, “Then you’ll need to know you’re expected to obey the five leaders of the cult, who call themselves by the pretty title of ‘the Voices of the Gods,’ and the hierarchy of their followers known as ‘the Servants of the Gods.’ You’ll need to believe in their gods. You have to wonder how a cult so powerful can arise from a belief in gods that do not exist. You might expect them to fear the influence of other cults, but they actually encourage tolerance of them.”

Mairae pulled a face in mock disappointment. “I’m afraid that without the orgies Southern Ithania has no attraction for me.”

Juran chuckled. “That is a relief to hear. We would so hate to lose you.” He paused, then sighed. “Now, lastly, there is a darker matter to attend to. A few weeks ago I received several reports from eastern Toren of attacks by a hunt of vorns. These are no ordinary vorns. They’re twice the size of the usual creatures. Travellers, farmers and even merchant families have been killed by them.

“Several hunting teams were sent, but none have returned. A woman who witnessed them kill her husband outside her home claimed that a man was riding one of the creatures, and appeared to be directing them. I thought at first she had made a mistake. Vorns work so well together that they can appear to be directed by an outside force. Perhaps she imagined a man-shape in the darkness. There seems to be no human purpose to the attacks, either. The victims have nothing in common except that they were outside at night.

“But other witnesses have now confirmed her story. Some say he is directing them telepathically. If that is true, he must be a sorcerer. I have sent three village priests to investigate. Should this man prove to be a sorcerer I will contact you all telepathically so that you may witness the confrontation.” Juran straightened. “That is all I have to present today. Does anyone else have a matter to raise?”

Mairae shook her head. As Rian voiced a negative, Dyara glanced at Auraya, then shrugged.

“Nothing, for now.”

“Then I declare this meeting ended.”

The tower was taller than any she had seen. It was so high that clouds tore themselves upon it as they passed. Conflicting emotions warred within Emerahl. She should flee. Any moment they would see. But she wanted to look. Wanted to watch. Something about that white spire fascinated her.

She moved closer. As she did, the tower loomed over her. It seemed to flex. She realized too late that this was no illusion. Cracks had appeared, zigzagging along the seams of the huge stone bricks the tower had been built from. The tower was going to fall.

She turned and tried to run but the air was thick and syrupy and her legs were too weak to move through it. She could see the shadow of the tower lengthening before her. As it widened, she wondered why she hadn’t had the sense to run sideways, out of its path.

Then the world exploded.

Everything was abruptly dark and silent. She could not breathe. Voices called her name, but she could not draw enough breath to answer. Slowly the cold darkness crept in.

“Sorceress!”

The voice of the speaker was dark with anger, but it was a chance of rescue nonetheless.

“Come out, you meddling old bitch!”

Emerahl started out of the dream and opened her eyes. The round interior wall of the lighthouse disappeared into darkness above. She heard the sounds of approaching footsteps and the muttering of several voices coming from the opening in the wall where, in the past, two great carved doors had been. A broad-shouldered shape stood beyond.

“Come out, or we’ll come in and get you.”

The voice was full of threat and anger, but also a hint of fear. She shook off the lingering nightmare reluctantly— she would have liked time to analyze it before the details faded—and scrambled to her feet.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“I am Erine, Head of Corel. Come out now, or I’ll send my men to fetch you.”

Emerahl moved to the doorway. Outside stood fourteen men, some looking up at the lighthouse, some glancing behind, and the rest watching their leader. All wore a scowl and carried some kind of rough weapon. Clearly none could see her, as they were standing in the bright morning light and she was hidden in the shadows of the lighthouse.

“So that’s what you’re calling that ring of hovels nowadays,” she said, stepping into the doorway. “Corel. A pretty name for a place founded by smugglers.”

The broad-shouldered man all but bared his teeth in anger. “Corel is our home. You’d better show some respect or we’ll—”

“Respect?” She stared up at him. “You come up here shouting and putting out orders and threats, and you expect me to show you some respect?” She took a step forward. “Get back to your village, men of Corel. You’ll get nothing from me today.”