Trudi Canavan - Priestess of the White

Auraya stepped over a fallen log, taking care that no crinkle of crushed leaves or snapping of twigs betrayed her presence. A tug at her throat warned her to look back. The hem of her tawl had caught on a branch. She eased it free and carefully chose her next step.

Her quarry moved and she froze.

He can’t have heard me, she told herself. I haven’t made a sound .

She held her breath as the man rose and looked up into the mossy branches of an old garpa tree. His Dreamweaver vest was dappled with leafy shadows. After a moment he crouched and resumed his examination of the underbrush.

Auraya took three careful steps closer.

“You’re early today, Auraya.”

Letting out a sigh of exasperation, Auraya stomped to his side. One day I’m going to surprise him, she vowed. “Mother took a strong dose last night. She’ll sleep late.”

Leiard picked up a piece of bark, then took a short knife from a vest pocket, slid the point into a crack and twisted it to reveal tiny red seeds inside.

“What are they?” she asked, intrigued. Though Leiard had been teaching her about the forest for years there was always something new to learn.

“The seed of the garpa tree.” Leiard tipped out the seeds and spread them in his palm. “Garpa speeds the heart and prevents sleep. It is used by couriers so they can ride long distances, and by soldiers and scholars to keep awake, and . . .”

Falling silent, he straightened and stared into the forest. Auraya heard a distant snap of wood. She looked through the trees. Was it her father, come to fetch her home? Or was it Priest Avorim? He had told her not to speak to Dreamweavers. She liked to secretly defy the priest, but to be found in Leiard’s company was another matter. She took a step away.

“Stay where you are.”

Auraya stilled, surprised at Leiard’s tone. Hearing the sound of footsteps, she turned to see two men step into view. They were stocky and wore tough hide vests. Both faces were covered in swirls and dashes of black.

Dunwayans, Auraya thought.

“Stay silent,” Leiard murmured. “I will deal with them.”

The Dunwayans saw her and Leiard. As they hurried forward she saw that each carried an unsheathed sword. Leiard remained still. The Dunwayans stopped a few steps away.

“Dreamweaver,” one said. “Are more people in the forest?”

“I do not know,” Leiard replied. “The forest is large and people seldom enter.”

The warrior gestured with his sword toward the village. “Come with us.”

Leiard did not argue or ask for an explanation.

“Aren’t you going to ask what’s going on?” Auraya whispered.

“No,” he replied. “We will find out soon enough.” Oralyn was the largest village in northwestern Hania, but Auraya had heard visitors grumble that it wasn’t particularly big. Built on the summit of a hill, it overlooked the surrounding fields and forest. A stone Temple dominated the rest of the buildings and an ancient wall encircled all. The old gates had been removed over half a century ago, leaving misshapen stumps of rust where hinges had once been.

Dunwayan warriors paced the wall and the fields outside were empty of workers. Auraya and Leiard were escorted along equally empty streets to the Temple, then directed inside. Villagers crowded the large room. Some of the younger men wore bandages. Hearing her name, Auraya saw her parents and hurried to their side.

“Thank the gods you’re alive,” her mother said, drawing Auraya into an embrace.

“What’s happening?”

Her mother sank to the floor again. “These foreigners made us come here,” she said. “Even though your father told them I was sick.”

Auraya undid the ties of her tawl, folded it and sat down on it. “Did they say why?”

“No,” her father replied. “I don’t think they intend to harm us. Some of the men tried to fight the warriors after Priest Avorim failed, but none were killed.”

Auraya was not surprised that Avorim had been defeated. Though all priests were Gifted, not all were powerful sorcerers. Auraya suspected there were farmers with more magical ability than Avorim.

Leiard had stopped by one of the injured men. “Would you like me to look at that?” he asked quietly.

The man opened his mouth to reply, but froze as a white-clad figure moved to stand beside him. The injured man glanced up at Priest Avorim then shook his head.

Leiard straightened and looked at the priest. Though Avorim was not as tall as Leiard, he had authority. Auraya felt her heartbeat quicken as the two men stared at each other, then Leiard bowed his head and moved away.

Fools, she thought. He could stop the pain at the least. Does it matter that he doesn’t worship the gods? He knows more about healing than anyone here.

Yet she understood the situation wasn’t that simple. Circlians and Dreamweavers had always hated each other. Circlians hated Dreamweavers because Dreamweavers didn’t worship the gods. Dreamweavers hated the gods because they had killed their leader, Mirar. Or so Priest Avorim says, she thought . I’ve never heard Leiard say so .

A metallic clunk echoed through the Temple. All heads turned toward the doors as they swung open. Two Dunwayan warriors entered. One had lines tattooed across his forehead, giving the impression of a permanent scowl. Auraya’s heart skipped as she recognized the pattern. He is their leader. Leiard described these tattoos to me once . Beside him was a man in dark blue clothing, his face covered in radiating lines. And he is a sorcerer .

The pair looked around the room. “Who leads this village?” the Dunwayan leader asked.

The village head, a fat merchant named Qurin, stepped forward nervously.

“I do.”

“What is your name and rank?”

“Qurin, Head of Oralyn.”

The Dunwayan leader looked the plump man up and down. “I am Bal, Talm of Mirrim, Ka-Lem of the Leven-ark.”

Leiard’s lessons were coming back to Auraya. “Talm” was a title of land ownership. “Ka-Lem” was a high position in the Dunwayan military. The latter ought to be linked to the name of one of the twenty-one warrior clans, but she did not recognize the name “Leven-ark.”

“This is Sen,” Bal continued, nodding to the sorcerer at his side. “Fire-warrior of the Leven-ark. You have a priest with you.” He looked at Avorim. “Come here and speak your name.”

Avorim glided forward to stand beside the village head. “I am Priest Avorim,” he said, the wrinkles of his face set in an expression of disdain. “Why have you attacked our village? Set us free at once!”

Auraya suppressed a groan. This was not the way to address a Dunwayan, and definitely not the way to address a Dunwayan who had just taken a village hostage.

Bal ignored the priest’s demand. “Come with me.”

As Bal turned on his heel, Qurin looked desperately at Avorim, who put a hand on his shoulder in reassurance. The pair followed Bal out of the Temple.

Once the door had closed the villagers began speculating. Despite the village’s close proximity to Dunway, its people knew little about the neighboring land. They didn’t need to. The mountains that separated the two countries were near impassable, so trade was undertaken by sea or through the pass far to the south.

The thought of what Qurin and Avorim might say to upset Bal sent a shiver of apprehension down Auraya’s spine. She doubted there was anyone in the village, other than Leiard, with enough understanding of Dunwayans to negotiate a way out of this situation. But Avorim would never allow a Dreamweaver to speak for them.