Priestess of the White

  :But linking will give me more link memories, Leiard pointed out.

  :Yes, it will. However, the more you link, the less of a problem that will be. For now, link with only one other Dreamweaver so there is less memory transfer for every self-assertion. Link with younger people who have fewer memories to transfer. This young man you are teaching, for example, would suit you well.

  :Jayim. Leiard considered how little experience of life the boy had. Yes, he will be most suitable—if he decides to remain a Dreamweaver.

  Disappointment flowed from several of the Dreamweavers. They had realized that Leiard could not join in another link with them while in Arbeem, so they would not see more of Mirar’s memories. Arleej felt a wry amusement. Her people had put aside all their suspicions and now accepted and trusted him. Was this just because he held Mirar’s memories?

  No, she decided. His intentions are good. His loyalty is to us, though it would be sorely tested if he were forced to choose between his people and Auraya. That he felt this newest of the White to be worthy of his regard was a good sign, too.

  Satisfied, she began the last part of the ritual, the self-assertion.

  I am Arleej, Dreamweaver elder. Born in Teerninya to Leenin Booter and…

  She drew her thoughts in to herself as she recalled those facts that she felt most defined her. As she opened her eyes, she turned to find Leiard still involved in the ritual. The lines about his forehead deepened, then he drew in a deep breath and looked at her. She smiled and released his hand.

  “You have been a surprise to us, Leiard.”

  His gaze shifted to the other Dreamweavers, who had gathered in groups to talk, and were no doubt talking about him. “Tonight’s discovery was a surprise to me as well. I have much to think about. Will I cause offense if I leave now?”

  Arleej shook her head. “No, they will understand. Most return home soon after a link—though I think they would break that habit tonight if you stayed. I’ll see you out, before they pounce.” She ushered him toward the door, waving away one of the elder Dreamweavers as he stepped forward.

  “Leiard must return to his travelling companions,” she announced. There were murmurs of disappointment. Leiard touched his heart, mouth and forehead and each of the Dreamweavers solemnly followed suit.

  As she led him down the corridor to the entrance of the House, Arleej could think of nothing to say, only a stream of questions best left for another time. They stepped out of the House to find a hired platten had just arrived carrying a family with a sick child. She hailed the driver.

  “Are you free for another ride?” she asked.

  “Where to?” the man asked.

  “The Temple,” she instructed. “The back entrance.”

  The driver’s eyebrows rose. She bartered a fair price and paid the man, then watched as Leiard climbed aboard.

  “I expect I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.

  “Yes.” Leiard smiled then turned to face the front. Taking this as a cue, the driver flicked the reins and the vehicle drew away.

  Arleej shook her head slowly. It was odd, indeed, to be sending a Dreamweaver “home” to a Circlian Temple.

  When the vehicle had turned out of sight, she hurried back inside the House. As she expected, her closest confidant, Dreamweaver Neeran, was waiting for her in the hall. His eyes were wide with wonder.

  “That was…was…”

  “Astounding,” she agreed. “Come up to my room. We need to talk.”

  “Of all the people to have Mirar’s memories,” he breathed as he followed her up the stairs, “it had to be the Dreamweaver adviser to the White.”

  “An extraordinary man in an extraordinary position,” she agreed. Reaching the door to her room, she pushed it open and ushered Neeran inside. He turned to stare at her.

  “Do you think the White know?”

  She considered. “If he didn’t, then how could they?”

  “All of the White can read minds. Surely Juran will have recognized something of Mirar in Leiard.”

  Arleej thought of Leiard’s words: “…all minds are visible to the White.”

  “If Juran has, then he was not bothered by it. If he hasn’t, well, now that this is known by us and Leiard, the White will discover it too. I only hope this will not cause him trouble.”

  Neeran’s eyes widened and he nodded in agreement. “They also know that Leiard has been working to our mutual benefit.” He looked up at Arleej. “Which is curious in itself, isn’t it?”

  She nodded. “Curious that someone with so much of Mirar in them would encourage this alliance?”

  “Yes.”

  “No matter what the White do about Leiard, one thing is clear.” She moved to the fireplace, where a bottle of ahm stood warming beside the hearth. “We should consider the possibility, strange as it may seem, that an alliance between Somrey and the White is what Mirar would have wanted.”

  As the dark speck in the sky grew larger, Tryss watched apprehensively. Hours had passed since the time Drilli had said she would meet him. He had strapped on his new harness three times, determined he would not wait for her. Each time he had unstrapped the harness again. She had extracted a promise from him that he wouldn’t test it unless she was there to see, and he didn’t want to disappoint her.

  Now, watching the approaching Siyee, he felt his pulse quicken with alternating dread and excitement. Drilli had come to observe him work many times. He had expected her to grow bored, but she just sat close by and talked endlessly. To his surprise, he liked it. Mostly she spoke of their families, or the landwalker’s alliance proposal, but often she would question him about the things he had made. Sometimes she made suggestions. Occasionally they were good.

  The speck had grown into a figure now. It descended toward him and he sighed with relief as he recognized Drilli’s wing patterns. He picked up the harness and ducked his head through the loop of the neck strap, then began to secure the other bindings.

  A whistle of greeting heralded her arrival. She landed gracefully and strode toward him, grinning.

  “Look at you,” she said.

  “You’re late,” he told her, completely failing to sound annoyed.

  “I know. I’m sorry. Mother had me plucking girri for hours.” She flexed her fingers. “Are you ready?”

  “Been ready for hours.”

  “Let’s go, then.”

  They leapt into the air together. The wind set the straps of his harness humming. It was lighter than the last, having fewer parts. The main weight hung from just below his chest, however, so he was more conscious of this harness than the last.

  “Comfortable?” Drilli called.

  “Bearable,” he replied.

  They swooped down toward a narrow valley. Unlike the bare sides of the mountain, which were covered with only the toughest of grasses and trees, the valley was filled with vegetation and more likely to be hiding prey. As they swooped across the treetops something launched itself into the air. Drilli gave a whoop of excitement.

  “Get him!” she shrieked.

  It was an ark, a predatory bird more used to hovering, swooping and stunning its prey with paralyzing magic than being chased itself. It glided below them, occasionally flapping its wings.

  Tryss followed it. He drew his arms together and grabbed the pipe strapped to his side, then spread his wings wide before he could fall far. Another quick movement brought the pipe to his lips. Now it was time to see if his latest adaptation proved useful.

  With one end of the pipe held between his teeth, he dipped the other into the basket of tiny darts hanging below his chest. He sucked in and felt a dart lodge in the pipe. Looking up again, he saw that the ark had changed direction. He shifted his wings and pursued it.

  The bird glided below, unsure what to make of its pursuers. While Siyee would happily catch and eat ark, they rarely bothered so were not familiar predators to the birds. Tryss aimed as best he could, with the pipe fixed between his teeth, then blew as hard as he wa
s able.

  And missed.

  Tryss growled—the closest he could get to a curse while holding the pipe between his teeth. He bent to take another dart into the pipe, then took aim again. This time he missed by an arm’s length. Sighing, he tried once more, but at the last moment the bird dived into the protection of the trees.

  Frustration coiled around him like strangling vines. He gritted his teeth and felt the pipe split. This time he did curse, and the pipe fell out of his mouth into the vegetation below.

  Suddenly all he wanted to do was get rid of the contraption strapped to him. He flew toward an outcrop on one side of the valley, landed heavily, then sat down and started pulling at the harness straps. Drilli dropped onto the ground in front of him.

  “Stop. Let me do that,” she said, grabbing his hands.

  He wanted to push her away. Why am I so angry? Standing up, he relaxed and let her undo the bindings. Frustration and anger bled away as the pressure of them lessened, and as he found himself standing closer to her than he had ever dared.

  “So what happened?” she asked as the harness slid to the ground.

  He grimaced. “I missed. Then the pipe split. I…I crushed it between my teeth.”

  She nodded slowly. “I can make you another, but you’ll have to get better at using it.”

  “How?”

  “Practice. I told you it wasn’t as easy as it looked.”

  “But I have been practicing.”

  “On the ground. You need to practice using it from the air. On moving targets.” She looked away and frowned. “And I think you need to build something to help support it while you’re aiming—and so if you drop it you won’t lose it.”

  He stared at her, then smiled.

  “I don’t know why you bother with me, Drilli.”

  She looked at him, then grinned. “You’re interesting, Tryss. And clever. But a bit slow at times.”

  He winced. “Slow?”

  “I’ve got a question for you, Tryss. How many times should a girl mention to a boy that she hasn’t got a partner for the trei-trei before she gives up and tries someone else?”

  He stared at her in surprise. She winked, took two steps back then turned and dived off the outcrop. A moment later she swooped upward on an updraft.

  Shaking his head, he abandoned the harness and set off in pursuit.

  11

  The Temple of Arbeem was a beautiful place. Though smaller and much less spectacular than the one in Hania, there was no part of it that didn’t have a pleasing view. The front overlooked the port, and windows had been placed wherever possible to offer a glimpse of water.

  Behind the Temple was a garden of many tiers. All rear windows offered a view of greenery. Auraya had been longing for the chance to explore it, but in the five days since their arrival in Somrey she hadn’t found an opportunity until now.

  Mairae walked beside her.

  “I’ve been thinking about Leiard,” she said quietly. “These link memories of Mirar’s don’t bother me. Maybe he has more than most Dreamweavers, but that doesn’t make him Mirar.” She chuckled. “Mirar was a flirt and a shameless seducer of women. Leiard doesn’t strike me as either.”

  Auraya smiled. “No. You’re worried about what the others will think, aren’t you?”

  Mairae grimaced. “Yes. Rian won’t like it, but he doesn’t stick his nose in other Whites’ business—though he’ll certainly give his opinion on the subject. Dyara will probably be alarmed and worried that Mirar will somehow still work against us through Leiard. She’ll want you to dismiss Leiard, despite all the help he’s given us.”

  “And Juran?”

  “I don’t know.” Mairae frowned. “Have you ever discussed Mirar with Juran?”

  Auraya shook her head.

  “He doesn’t talk about it in the way you’d expect. You’d think he’d be happy that Mirar is no longer making his life difficult, but instead he says it was a—how did he put it?—an ‘unfortunate necessity.’” I think he even feels guilty about it. Definitely regretful.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” Mairae shrugged. “But I think seeing Mirar’s memories in Leiard’s mind might stir more guilt and regret.”

  “I see.” Auraya chewed on her lip. “If I replace Leiard with another Dreamweaver there’s still a chance Juran will be reminded of Mirar. Many of them carry Mirar’s memories, though it is rare to find this many in one person. A younger Dreamweaver might not have any, but he may not be as useful to us.”

  Mairae sighed. “And just being around a Dreamweaver is going to remind him. It’s a question of degree. I’m sure Juran is capable of living with reminders of the past, but confronting him with actual memories of Mirar’s may be a bit much to ask.”

  “What should we do?”

  Mairae pursed her lips, then shrugged. “Wait and see. I’ll let Juran know about these memories so he is prepared for them. Should they prove a problem, I’ll let you know. Otherwise, just keep on as before.”

  Auraya sighed with relief. “I will.” They reached a small stone pavilion and sat down. A full-sized statue of Chaia stood in an alcove. It was impressively accurate—a solid version of the glowing figure she had come face-to-face with at the Choosing Ceremony. “I should be worn out. All that political discussion, but it never tired me.”

  “Another of the gods’ Gifts,” Mairae said. “Without them I’m sure all that rich Somreyan food would have made us sick—or fat.”

  Auraya grinned. “Do you think there’s a noble family here that hasn’t fed us? We’ve eaten every meal at a different house.”

  “I was beginning to suspect they’d invent new mealtimes just so we could visit more people.”

  “I feel a bit guilty about it, actually. While we’ve been socializing, poor Leiard has been running back and forth between us and the Dreamweaver House. He’s exhausted.”

  “Then we’ll have to hope, for his sake, that the council accept the modifications to the alliance or he’ll have to go through it all again. Ah—here’s your other man.”

  Auraya looked up, expecting to see Danjin, but instead a furry shape bounded out of the garden and leapt onto her knee.

  “Owaya!” Mischief looked up at her and fluttered his eyelashes.

  She choked back a laugh. He had learned the mannerism from the many veez belonging to Somreyan families. It appeared to melt the hearts of most rich Somreyan women. Not me, she told herself, though she had an uneasy suspicion she might be wrong.

  She hadn’t intended to take him with her on her social visits, but Mairae assured her that the Somreyans expected her to take her pet everywhere, as they did. At gatherings the veez played boisterously with each other, though servants always hovered nearby to discourage unplanned amorous encounters. Mischief had learned many new words, including some that were going to scandalize Auraya’s servants when he returned to Hania—if any understood Somreyan.

  Now, as he realized his latest trick had failed to make a treat appear in her hands, he began to look sulky. He gave a little huff and hung his head.

  “You’re so mean,” Mairae said. “I’ll take him to the kitchen and find him something to chew on. I do believe this sensation I am feeling is hunger. I’d almost forgotten what that was.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “Stay,” Mairae said. “You won’t be alone long.”

  Auraya blinked in surprise, then concentrated on the minds around her. She found Leiard’s quickly, as he was walking through the garden toward her.

  “Mischief. Snack.” Mairae held out an arm. The veez looked from her to Auraya.

  “Go on,” Auraya said.

  He leapt from her lap and scurried up Mairae’s arm to her shoulder. Auraya watched them walk away, smiling as the veez licked Mairae’s ear and caused her to flinch.

  Soon afterward she heard footsteps. Leiard came around a corner and saw her. He smiled and lengthened his stride. As he reached the pavilion his eyes strayed to the statue
of Chaia and his face froze for a moment, then his gaze returned to her.

  “Auraya of the White,” he said formally.

  “Dreamweaver Leiard,” she replied.

  “It grows late,” he observed. “Will they decide today, do you think?”

  She lifted one eyebrow at him. “I’ve never seen you anxious before.”

  His lips twitched up at one corner. “It would be disappointing if we came so far only to have them reject the alliance.”

  “Yes, it would, but perhaps it would only take a little more negotiation to persuade them.”

  “Perhaps.”

  He glanced at the statue again. She turned to regard it. If Chaia was watching, what did he make of Leiard? Were the gods bothered by the revelation that the Dreamweaver adviser to the White contained Mirar’s memories?

  No, they probably knew all along, she realized. They would have warned me if Leiard was a danger.

  But would they warn her if this put him in danger? Standing up, she moved out of the pavilion and began to stroll down the path. Leiard let out a long, quiet sigh of relief and fell into step beside her.

  She felt a pang of annoyance at the sigh. It reminded her that, even if she managed to encourage tolerance for Dreamweavers among Circlians, he would never be comfortable around anything to do with the gods. That was to be expected. He had turned from the gods to become a Dreamweaver. When he died the gods would not take his soul. It would cease to exist. The thought pained her. I am immortal. I won’t ever meet him in the afterlife. It wouldn’t be so bad if he simply worshipped a different god. At least I’d know he still existed somewhere.

  She shook her head. Why would someone reject the gods and their chance at eternity? She turned to regard him, and his eyebrows rose in query.

  “What is it?”

  “Why did you become a Dreamweaver, Leiard?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t remember exactly,” he said. “Must have been the right decision at the time.”

  “What did your family think—do you remember that?”