Priestess of the White

  If they are, why don’t they just speak to me? Why this invitation passed through others? Auraya found herself wondering, not for the first time. Maybe because they want the Siyee to note it. Had the gods simply spoken into my mind the Siyee would not know, or would have to trust that I told the truth. And if the gods appeared in the presence of the Siyee that takes some of the holiness out of this place, since it’s where they go when they commune with Huan.

  They drew closer to the peak and Auraya began to make out details. The highest point was oddly shaped—cylindrical and rounded at the top. She saw a sliver of sky within the shape, and realized that it was hollow. Suddenly what she had glimpsed in Sirri’s mind made sense. A small pavilion Temple had been carved out of the stone peak.

  She wondered how it had been built. Below the circular base, on all sides, was a near-vertical drop. Perhaps if a hollow had been made first, the structure could have been gradually carved from the inside. None but Siyee could have reached such a high, inaccessible place, however. She had not realized the Siyee stone-carvers were so skilled. As she drew closer she could see that it was a simple, undecorated structure. Five columns supported a domed roof. The proportions were flawless, the surfaced polished to a shine.

  Sirri flapped her wings to gain a little more height, then tilted them so that she landed neatly between two columns. Auraya abandoned all pretense of being subject to the forces of wind and the pull of the earth. She straightened and stopped, floating in midair, then moved herself forward until her feet met the center of the Temple’s floor.

  Only then did it occur to her that the Temple had been made to landwalker proportions. She did not need to duck her head to avoid the ceiling.

  “This is the Temple,” Sirri said quietly. “It has always been here. Our records say it was here long before the Siyee were created.”

  “The Siyee didn’t create it?”

  Sirri shook her head. “No.”

  “Then who did?”

  “Nobody knows. Huan, perhaps.”

  Auraya nodded, though she was still mystified. The gods could only affect this world through humans, and then only through willing humans, so at least one human must have been involved. Perhaps Huan had given a stone-carver the ability to fly in order to have this place created.

  “This is a sacred place. Even those of the Temple Mountain tribe, who keep watch over it, rarely visit.” Sirri gave Auraya a quick smile. “We don’t want to distract Huan from her work unnecessarily.”

  Auraya ran a hand over a column. There was no sign of wear or age. “It is amazing.”

  “I have one question, before I leave,” Sirri said. “The Speakers wish to know when you want to depart for Borra?”

  “Want to? Not ever.” Auraya sighed. “But I need to—and soon. I must see if I can persuade the Elai to join us.”

  Sirri smiled. “I wish you luck, then. The Elai distrust outsiders.”

  Auraya nodded. “So you have said. Yet they trade with you.”

  “We creations of Huan like to keep in contact. The Sand tribe trades with the Elai. You should meet with their Speaker before you go. I’m sure he can tell you more about the sea people than I can.”

  “I will.”

  The Speaker’s expression became serious. “For now, Auraya of the White, I must leave you.” She moved to the edge of the Temple and pointed downward. “See that river?”

  Auraya moved to Sirri’s side and looked down. A ribbon of reflected sky wound down a narrow ravine.

  “Yes.”

  “When you are done, fly down there. The Temple Mountain tribe live in caves along the ravine.” She turned to give Auraya a smile, then leaned out over the edge and glided away.

  :Auraya.

  Her heart seemed to stop. The voice had spoken in her mind. It was distinctly feminine.

  :Huan?

  :Yes.

  The air before her brightened. Auraya stepped back, her heart pounding, as a figure of light formed before her. She dropped to her knees, then prostrated herself before the goddess.

  :Rise, Auraya.

  As Auraya obeyed she felt herself trembling with a mixture of joy and terror. She was standing, alone, before one of the gods. Even though I am one of their Chosen, before them I am just another ordinary human.

  Huan smiled.

  :You are no ordinary human, Auraya. We do not choose ordinary humans. We choose those with extraordinary talents, and you have certainly proved to have more of those than we initially detected.

  The goddess’s tone was approving, yet Auraya sensed a note of irony. She did not have time to wonder at Huan’s meaning as the goddess continued speaking.

  :We are satisfied with your success in unifying Northern Ithania so far. I am particularly pleased to see the Siyee united with the White. You will find they are the easier of my two races to befriend, however. Your flying skills will not impress the Elai. They will be a greater challenge for you.

  :How can I impress them?

  :That is for you to discover, Auraya. The choice must be their own, so we will not interfere either by giving you instructions, or giving the Elai direction.

  :I understand.

  Huan’s lips twisted in a wry smile.

  :I doubt it. You are young and have much to learn—particularly in matters of the heart. I do not disapprove of you enjoying the Dreamweaver, Auraya. It is up to your fellow White to decide what is acceptable or unacceptable to the people. However, heed this warning. Only pain can come of this sort of love. Be prepared for it. Your people need you to be strong. Falter, and they may suffer.

  Auraya felt her face warming as surprise was followed by embarrassment.

  :I will, was all she could think to say.

  Huan nodded. The figure dissolved into a column of light, then shrank, faded and vanished.

  Kimyala, high priest of the followers of Gareilem, donned his many-layered octavestim slowly, following the ancient ritual of his forebears with great care. As he arranged and tied each garment he murmured prayers to his god. It was important to remember every stage of the ritual, and every ritual of the day.

  He had asked his master, the former high priest, why this was so. The great Shamila had replied simply that it was important to remember.

  Kimyala had not comprehended at the time. He suspected he hadn’t wanted to, because of his youthful impatience with the endless and complicated rituals. Now he understood better. It was important to remember, because there were too few who did.

  Too few believed. The Circlians thought Gareilem dead and scorned his followers. The Pentadrians believed this too and pitied Kimyala. The Dreamweavers agreed with both, but at least they treated him with respect.

  Kimyala was sure of one thing: gods cannot die. This was one of the ancient secrets of the followers of Gareilem. Let the others doubt, but he and his people knew the truth. The gods were beings of magic and wisdom. They existed as long as magic existed, so Gareilem must still exist somewhere, in some form. Perhaps, one day, he would return. His silence may even be a test of their faith. He was letting his followers dwindle until only the most loyal remained.

  The dressing ritual over, Kimyala left his room and climbed to the roof of the old temple. Gareilem was the god of rock, sand and earth. His temples had always been built high on the sides of mountains. Here, near the southern coast of Sennon, there were only a few hills. The temple was built on a small rocky outcrop in the midst of a sea of dunes, but the lack of vegetation taller than a saltbush meant it had an uninterrupted view of the surrounding area.

  Reaching the roof of the temple, Kimyala let his gaze move across the land. The sun hung just above the horizon, calling for his attention. The ritual chant for the end of the day crowded his thoughts, but it was not yet time. There wasn’t much to see to the west. Just the swell of a few more hills along the coast. The Gulf of Sorrow stretched, blue-gray, before him. A little to the left he could see the Isthmus of Grya reaching toward the southern continent. At its base was the da
rk smudge that was the city of Diamyane.

  The city was close enough that he could see the scribble of roads and the sprawling low houses between them. On a clear day he could make out the city’s denizens without even the use of a lens. Today a slight but persistent wind had raised enough dust to soften the details of the city. There was nothing interesting to see. Except…as he looked beyond he noticed something unusual.

  “Jedire!” he bellowed. “Bring my lens! Quickly!”

  He heard hurried footsteps as his acolyte, studying in the room below, responded. Glancing at the sun, Kimyala judged he still had several minutes before it touched the horizon. Soon all light would be gone and the land would disappear in darkness.

  The sound of sandals slapping against the stone stairs heralded the arrival of Jedire. The boy reached the top and handed Kimyala the lens. The high priest held the tube up to his eye.

  He searched for the city and from there found the Isthmus. The dark smudge he had seen took form. Columns of figures marched toward Sennon, some holding banners. In the center of each length of black cloth was a white five-pointed star.

  “Pentadrians,” he said in disgust, handing the lens back to his acolyte.

  The boy raised the tube to his eye.

  “What are they doing?”

  “Don’t know. A pilgrimage, maybe.”

  “They’re carrying weapons,” the boy said in a hushed voice. “They’re going to war.”

  Kimyala snatched the lens from the boy and turned to face the city. Raising the tube to his eye, he sought the Pentadrians again and examined the line of marchers closely. Sure enough, some were wearing armor. Heavily laden carts trundled in their midst. As he watched, the head of the black column reached the city.

  He muttered a curse. He had already lost two boys to the Pentadrians. It was not easy keeping them when the Pentadrians were always about, flaunting their riches and powers. If that wasn’t enough to lure young men away, there were always the rumors about their fertility rites. It was said that they held orgies in which all participants were masked, and that sometimes their gods joined in.

  “It’s an army, isn’t it?” Jedire asked. “Have they come to take over Sennon?”

  Kimyala shook his head. “I don’t know. Nobody is trying to stop them.”

  “If they aren’t here to invade us, who are they going to invade?”

  He turned to regard Jedire. The boy’s eyes were bright with excitement.

  “Don’t get any foolish ideas about running off to join Ewarli and Gilare,” Kimyala warned him. “Boys die in battles. They die horribly, in terrible pain. Now take this lens below quickly. I have a ritual to perform.”

  As the boy hurried away, Kimyala turned his attention to the sun. The fiery disk was about to touch the horizon. It was time to ignore the ominous presence of the army below, and begin the ritual.

  27

  The window was open. Danjin cursed the servants. How had they let this happen? Mischief might get out—could be out there clinging to the wall right now, oblivious to the risk of falling.

  He ought to call the servants and get someone else to deal with it, but he found he could not stop himself walking toward the opening. Cold air surrounded him. He moved to the edge. Felt his toes curl over the sill, chilled by the wind.

  I am on the brink, he thought. Then he frowned. Why aren’t I wearing shoes?

  He looked beyond his feet at the ground far, far below, and everything began to spin.

  Suddenly he was standing at the base of the White Tower, looking up. He ought to have felt better now that he was outside on good, firm ground, but this only terrified him more. The tower loomed over him, leaned over him. Too late, he saw the cracks form.

  He saw it crumple, saw the fragments fall toward him. He could not move. Rubble pelted down upon him, beat him to the ground, covered him, smothered him. He fought the terror. Told himself to lie still…

  “Danjin.”

  He felt hope. If he could hear someone, perhaps he was close enough to the surface that they could dig him out. His throat was dry and full of dust, and he could not make a noise.

  Patience. There can be no fast way out of this.

  But he must also hurry. He had to decide how to use his remaining strength carefully…

  “Danjin. Wake up.”

  A hand grasped his arm. Rescue!

  “Danjin!”

  He woke with a start and took in his room, the blankets wound tightly around his body—but not his feet—and his wife staring down at him.

  “What?”

  Silava straightened and placed her hands on her hips.

  “There is an army outside.”

  An army? He untangled himself from the blankets and followed her to one of the windows. This side of his house faced one of the main streets of the city. He looked down and stared in surprise at the lines of troops marching past.

  It was strangely thrilling to see them. Hanian soldiers were always visible in the city, from the clean roads of the noble families to the low streets of the rougher parts, but never this many at once. The steady tread of their sandals sounded so confident and organized.

  “They’re not wasting time,” he muttered to himself.

  “For what?”

  “At the meeting last night, Juran announced that the Pentadrian army has entered Sennon and declared their intention to rid the world of Circlians,” he explained. “It’s been so long since Hania faced a military threat. A few nobles expressed their doubt that our army was up to it. This will convince them.”

  She looked down at the troops. “Where are they going?”

  He considered. “Probably to the Temple to seek the gods’ blessing.”

  “All of them at once?”

  “Between them and the priests they’ll put on such a show that our young men will flock to join the army and be part of the great adventure. So will the forces of other lands, though they have no choice. They’re bound by the terms of their alliances with the White.”

  She considered him speculatively. “So you’re allowed to tell me all this now?”

  “Yes. It’s public knowledge, as of last night.”

  “You didn’t tell me when you got home.”

  “You were asleep.”

  “News of this importance is worthy of being woken up for.”

  “One is reluctant to interrupt another’s sleep when so deprived of it oneself.”

  She gave him a withering look.

  He spread his hands. “Would it have made any difference if you had learned of this five hours earlier?”

  Her nose wrinkled. “Yes. I probably wouldn’t have slept at all.” She sighed. “So I guess you will be accompanying Auraya on this great adventure?”

  He looked down at the soldiers marching past below. “Probably, though I am no military expert or soldier. I’ll probably end up doing much the same sort of duties as I do now—which was something my father insisted on mentioning numerous times last night.”

  She chuckled. “I’m sure he did. Did you tell him you know they’re all spying for the White?”

  “No. I changed my mind. He was so insufferably smug. Auraya and I find it much more amusing to let him think I don’t know.”

  Silava’s eyebrows rose. “She’s back?”

  He shook his head, then tapped his temple with one finger. “She wanted to see the reactions of the other nobles and ambassadors. They’re much more outspoken when they believe they’re not in the presence of a White.”

  She paused. “Is she in your head now?”

  “No.” He took her hand, recalling other occasions when the mention of Auraya seeing through his eyes had disturbed her. “It’s not like that. She doesn’t take over my mind. I’m still me. All she can do is hear what I hear and see what I see.”

  Silava drew her hand away. “I understand that. Or at least I think I do. But I can’t help not liking it. How do I know whether she’s watching me or not?”

  He chuckled. “She’s d
iscreet.”

  “That makes her sound like your mistress.”

  “Are you jealous?”

  She moved away, avoiding his gaze. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  He smiled and followed her. “I think you are. My wife is actually jealous of Auraya of the White.”

  “I…she gets more time with you than I do.”

  He nodded. “It’s true. She gets all that dry information about customs and politics and law that I know you love so much. Is that what you miss? Shall I tell you all about the laws laid down by the King of Genria fifty years ago? Or the many traditions and rituals for the serving of teho in Sennon high society?”

  “There’s a lot more of that in you than anything else,” she retorted.

  He caught her hand and turned her to face him. “That may be true, but everything else there is to have, I give to you. My friendship, my respect, my children, even my body—though you probably see nothing of worth in this sad, neglected form.”

  Her lips thinned, but he could tell from the way the lines around her eyes deepened that she was pleased and amused by his words.

  “If I didn’t suspect you were hoping I’d convince you otherwise, I’d be a bigger fool than you,” she said.

  He grinned. “Can’t you at least pretend to be a fool for me?”

  She pulled away and strode toward the door. “I don’t have the time, and my husband no doubt has more dry information to hurry off to gather and deliver to his mistress.”

  He sighed loudly. “How can I face the world believing such things about myself?”

  Reaching the door, she glanced back and smiled. “I’m sure you’ll manage.”

  If Auraya hadn’t known that there were many times more Siyee than those now waiting in the Open, she might have thought the entire race had come out to see her off. Most had gathered together into a large crowd standing under the outcrop from which the Speakers had addressed them during the two Gatherings. Others filled the branches of the enormous trees on either side. Still more glided above, and their constant movement cast distracting shadows on the ground.