[Age of the Five 01] - Priestess of the White Page 5

  She had worn a circ every day since she had been ordained. All priests and priestesses wore them, including the White. Ordinary priests and priestesses wore a circ trimmed in blue. The circ of a high priest or priestess was trimmed in gold. The White’s bore no decoration to show that they had put aside self-interest and wealth in order to serve the gods. It was also why people called the Gods’ Chosen the “White.”

  Looking over her shoulder, Auraya regarded her new circ, hanging on a stand made for that purpose. The two gold clasps pinned to the edge marked where the top third of the circle folded back against the rest. It was draped around the shoulders, the clasps attaching to opposite sides.

  The circ in her hands was lighter and coarser than the one on the stand. The White might not embellish their circs, she mused, but they do have them made from the best cloth. The softer white garments she had been given to wear beneath her new circ were also better quality. As with lesser priests and priestesses, the White could change their garments to suit the weather and their gender but everything was well crafted. She now wore sandals made of bleached leather with small gold clasps.

  She put the circ aside. She hadn’t worn it for over two years—not since she had become a high priestess and received a circ with a gold edge. That had disappeared, whisked away by servants the day she had been chosen. Would this, too, be removed if the servants found it? Did she care? She had only kept it out of a sense of sentimentality.

  Auraya turned back to the trunk. Taking out the rest of the objects within, she laid them on a seat nearby. When the trunk was empty she reached inside and levered open the secret compartment. Small rolls of parchment lay within.

  Why did I even keep these? she asked herself. I didn’t need to. I guess I couldn’t make myself throw away anything that my parents sent.

  Taking out a scroll, she unrolled it and began to read.

  My dear Auraya. The harvest has been good this year. Wor married Dynia last week. Old Mulyna left us to meet the gods. Our friend has agreed to my proposal. Send your letter to the priest.

  The next letter read:

  Dearest Auraya. We are glad to hear you are happy and learning fast. Life here is the same as always. Your mother has improved greatly since we took your advice. Fa-Dyer.

  Her father’s letters were, by necessity, short. Parchment was expensive. She felt a wary relief as she read more of them. We were careful, she thought. We didn’t say exactly what we were doing. Except for that first letter I sent, in which I had to make it plain what I wanted Father to do. Hopefully he burned that one.

  She sighed and shook her head. No matter how careful she and her father had been, the gods must know what they had done. They could see into the minds of all.

  Yet they still chose me, she thought. Of all the high priests and priestesses, they chose someone who broke the law and used a Dreamweaver’s services.

  Mairae had been true to her promise ten years ago. A healer priest had travelled to Oralyn to care for Auraya’s mother. Leiard could hardly continue treating Ma-Dyer, so Auraya had sent him a note thanking him for his help and explaining it was no longer needed.

  Despite the healer priest’s attention, Auraya’s mother had grown sicker. At the same time Auraya had learned through her studies that healer priests did not have half the skill or knowledge that Dreamweavers possessed. She realized that by causing Leiard’s treatments to be replaced by those of a healer priest she had effectively doomed her mother to an earlier, more painful death.

  Her time in Jarime had also shown her how deeply Circlians despised and distrusted Dreamweavers. She asked careful questions of her teachers and fellow priests and soon came to the conclusion that she could not openly arrange for Leiard or any other Dreamweaver to treat her mother again. She would meet resistance from her superiors if she did and she did not have the authority to order the healer priest home. So she had to arrange it surreptitiously.

  She had suggested in a letter to her father that her mother exaggerate her symptoms in order to convince everyone she was close to death. In the meantime, her father ventured into the forest to ask Leiard if he would resume his former treatment. The Dreamweaver had agreed. When Auraya received the news that her mother was dying, she suggested to the healer priest that he return to Jarime. He had done all he could.

  Leiard’s treatment had revived her mother, as she’d hoped. Her mother had played down her miraculous recovery, staying in the house and seeing few visitors—which was her inclination anyway.

  I was so sure this would stand against me being Chosen. I wanted so much to be a White, but I couldn’t make myself believe that the Dreamweavers are bad or that I had done anything wrong. The law against using a Dreamweaver’s services is ridiculous. The plants and other remedies Leiard uses are not good or evil depending on whether a heathen or believer uses them. I haven’t seen anything to convince me that Dreamweavers, in general, deserve to be hated or distrusted.

  Yet the gods still chose me. What am I to make of that? Does this mean they are willing to tolerate Dreamweavers now? She felt a thrill of hope. Do they want Circlians to accept Dreamweavers too? Am I meant to bring this about?

  The feeling faded and she shook her head. Why would they do that? Why would they show any tolerance for people who do not follow them and discourage others from doing so? More likely I will be told to keep my sympathies to myself and do my job.

  Why did that bother her? Why should she feel any sympathy for the members of a cult that she did not belong to? Was it simply because she still felt a debt of gratitude to Leiard for all that he had taught her, and for helping her mother? If that were so, it made sense that she would be concerned for his well-being, but not that she was concerned for Dreamweavers she had never met.

  It’s the thought of all the healing knowledge that would be lost if the Dreamweavers no longer existed, she told herself. I haven’t seen Leiard in ten years. If I’m concerned about him, it is probably only because my mother’s life depends on him.

  Taking all the letters out of the compartment, she placed them in a silver bowl. She held one up, drew magic to herself and sent it out as a little spark. A flame snapped into life, then ate its way down the parchment. When it had nearly reached her fingers she dropped the letter back into the bowl and picked up another.

  One by one the letters burned. As she worked she wondered if the gods were watching. I arranged for a Dreamweaver to treat my mother. I won’t willingly end that arrangement. Nor will I make it publicly known. If the gods disapprove, they will let me know.

  Dropping the last burning corner of parchment into the bowl, she stepped back and watched it turn to ash. She felt better. Holding onto that feeling, she returned to her bedroom and lay down.

  Now, maybe, I can get some sleep.

  The cliffs of Toren were high, black and dangerous. During storms the sea flung itself against the rock wall as if determined to batter it down. Even on quiet nights the water appeared to resent the presence of the natural barrier, foaming where it touched rock. But if this war between land and water was leading to a victory, it was coming too slowly for mortal eyes to guess the winner.

  In the distant past, many watercraft had become casualties of this battle. The black cliffs were difficult to see most nights and were a hidden peril if the moon was obscured by cloud. More than a thousand years ago, when the lighthouse had been built, the shipwrecks had stopped.

  Made from the same rock as the cliff wall it topped, the round stone walls of the tower were resisting time and weather. The wooden interior, however, had succumbed to rot and neglect long ago, leaving only a narrow stone stair curving up the inside of the wall. At the top was a room floored with a huge circular slab of rock through which a hole had been carved. The walls built upon this slab had suffered worse; only the arches still remained. The roof had fallen away years ago.

  Once the center of the room had been occupied by a floating ball of light so bright that it would blind anyone foolish enough to stare at i
t for more than a few moments. Sorcerers had maintained it, keeping the sea safe for centuries.

  Emerahl, wise woman and sorceress, was the only human visitor to that room these days. Years ago, when clearing some of the rubble that filled the hollow structure, she had found one of the masks those long-dead sorcerers had worn. The eyeholes were filled with dark gems to filter the dazzling light they had fed with magic.

  Now the lighthouse stood crumbling and unused and ships must judge the passage past the black cliffs without its help. As Emerahl reached the topmost room she paused to catch her breath. Placing a wrinkled hand on the column of an arch, she looked out at the sea. Tiny specks of light drew her eye. Ships always waited until daylight before navigating the passage between the cliffs and the islands.

  Do they know this place exists? she wondered. Do people still tell stories of the light that burned here? She snorted softly. If they do, I doubt they know it was built by a sorcerer at the bidding of Tempre, the fire god. They probably don’t even remember Tempre’s name. It’s only a few centuries since he died, but that’s plenty of time for mortals to forget what life was like before the War of the Gods.

  Did anyone know the names of the dead gods these days? Were there scholars who studied the subject? Perhaps in the cities. Ordinary men and women, struggling to make the best of their short lives, did not care about such things.

  Emerahl looked down at the cluster of houses further along the shore. As she did a movement closer to the lighthouse caught her eye. She groaned quietly in dismay. It had been weeks since anyone had dared to visit her. A thin girl dressed in a ragged tunic scrambled up the slope.

  Letting out a long sigh, Emerahl looked at the houses again and thought back to when the first people had arrived. A few men had found their way up the cliffs from a single boat and camped in the area. Smugglers, she had guessed. They had erected makeshift huts, dismantling and rebuilding them several times over the first months until they found an area sheltered enough from the regular storms for the huts to remain standing. They had approached her once, thinking to rob her, and she had taught them to respect her desire to be left alone.

  The men had left and returned regularly, and soon the single boat was accompanied by another, then more. One day a fishing boat arrived full of cargo and women. Soon there was the thin cry of a baby at night, then another. Babes became children and some lived to become adults. The girls became mothers too young, and many did not survive the experience. All villagers were lucky to live into their forties.

  They were a tough, ugly people.

  Their rough ways mellowed with each generation and with the influence of outsiders. Some newcomers came to establish trade, and a few stayed. Houses made of local stone replaced the huts of scavenged materials. The village grew. Domestic animals were let loose to graze on the tough grasses of the cliff top. Small, carefully maintained vegetable plots defied the salt air, storms and poor soil.

  Occasionally one of the villagers would trek up to the lighthouse seeking cures and advice from the wise woman there. Emerahl tolerated this because they brought gifts: food, cloth, small trinkets, news of the world. She was not averse to a little trade if it brought a small variation to her days and diet.

  The villagers did not always make good use of Emerahl’s remedies, however. One wife came for velweed for her hemorrhoids, but used it to poison her husband. Another man was sent to Emerahl by his wife for a cure for impotence, then, after his next journey away, came in search of a cure for genital warts. If Emerahl had known that the Gifted boy who wanted to learn how to stun fish and make fires was going to use these abilities to torment the village simpleton she would not have taught him anything at all.

  But she was not to blame for any of this. What people decided to do with what they bought from her was their problem. If a wise woman hadn’t been available, the wife would have found another way to kill her husband, the unfaithful husband would have strayed anyway—though perhaps with less gusto—and the Gifted bully would have used stones and fists.

  The village girl was getting closer now. What would she ask for? What would she offer in return? Emerahl smiled. People fascinated and repelled her. They were capable of being amazingly kind and ferociously cruel. Emerahl’s smile twisted. She had placed the villagers somewhere closer to the cruel side of humanity.

  She moved to the top of the stairs and began to descend. By the time the girl appeared, panting and wide-eyed, in the doorless entrance of the lighthouse, Emerahl was most of the way down. She stopped. A quick channelling of power set the small pile of sticks and branches in the center of the floor burning. The girl stared at the fire, then looked up at Emerahl fearfully.

  She looks so scrawny and worn out. But then, so do I.

  “What do you want, girl?” Emerahl demanded.

  “They say…they say you help people.”

  The voice was small and subdued. Emerahl guessed this girl did not like to attract attention to herself. Looking closer, she saw the signs of physical development in the girl’s face and body. She would become an attractive woman, in a thin, scrawny way.

  “You want to charm a man?”

  The girl flinched. “No.”

  “You want to un-charm a man, then?”

  “Yes. Not just one man,” the girl added. “All men.”

  Emerahl cackled quietly and continued down the stairs. “All men, eh? One day you might make an exception.”

  “I don’t think so. I hate them.”

  “What about your father?”

  “Him most of all.”

  Ah, typical teenager. But as Emerahl reached the bottom of the stairs she saw a wild desperation in the girl’s eyes. She sobered. This was no sulky rebellious child. Whatever unwanted attentions the girl was enduring had her terrified.

  “Come over by the fire.”

  The girl obeyed. Emerahl waved to an old bench she had found on the beach below the cliffs after a shipwreck, long before the village existed.

  “Sit.”

  The girl obeyed. Emerahl lowered herself onto the pile of blankets she used as a bed, her knees creaking.

  “There are potions I can make that will take the wind out of a man’s sails, if you know what I mean,” she told the girl. “But dosing a man is dangerous, and temporary. Potions are no use unless you know what’s coming and can plan for it.”

  “I thought you might make me ugly,” the girl said quickly. “So they don’t want to come near me.”

  Emerahl turned to stare at the girl, who flushed and looked at the ground.

  “There’s no safety in ugliness, if a man is drunk and capable of closing his eyes,” she said in a low voice. “And, as I said, one day you might want to make an exception.”

  The girl frowned, but remained silent.

  “I’m guessing there’s nobody down there willing or able to defend your virtue, or you wouldn’t have come,” Emerahl continued. “So I’ll have to teach you to do it yourself.”

  She caught at a chain around her neck and drew it over her head. The girl caught her breath as she saw the pendant hanging from it. It was a simple hardened droplet of sap, taken from a dembar tree. In the light of the fire it glowed a deep orange. Emerahl held it at arm’s length.

  “Look at it closely.”

  The girl obeyed, her eyes wide.

  “Listen to my voice. I want you to keep your eyes on this droplet. Look inside it. See the color. At the same time, be aware of the warmth of the fire beside you.” Emerahl continued talking, watching the girl’s face carefully. When the intervals between the girl’s blinks had lengthened, she moved her foot. The eyes fixed on the pendant did not shift. Nodding to herself, she told the girl to reach toward the droplet. Slowly the girl’s hand extended.

  “Now stop, just there, close but not quite touching the droplet. Feel the heat of the fire. Can you feel the heat?”

  The girl nodded slowly.

  “Good. Now imagine that you are drawing heat from the fire. Imagine that your
body is full of its gentle warmth. Do you feel warm? Yes. Now send that warmth to the droplet.”

  At once the sap began to glow. The girl blinked, then stared at the pendant in amazement. The glow faded again.

  “What happened?”

  “You just used a little magic,” Emerahl told her. She lowered the pendant and put it back around her neck.

  “I have Gifts?”

  “Of course you do. Every man and woman has Gifts. Most don’t have much more than what it takes to light a candle. You have more Gift than that, however.”

  The girl’s eyes were bright with excitement. Emerahl chuckled. She had seen that expression many times before. “But don’t go thinking you’re going to be a great sorceress, girl. You’re not that Gifted.”

  That had the desired sobering effect. “What can I do?”

  “You can persuade others to think twice before paying you more attention than you want. A simple shock of pain as a warning, and a numbing for those who don’t take it or are too drunk to feel pain. I’ll teach you both—and give you a little piece of advice to go with it. Learn the art of the flattering or humorous refusal. You might wish to see them robbed of their dignity, but a wounded pride will crave revenge. I have no time to teach you something as complex as how to unlock a door or stop a knife.”

  The girl nodded soberly. “I’ll try, though I’m not sure it’ll work on my father.”

  Emerahl hesitated. So it was like that. “Well, then. I’ll teach you these tricks tonight, but you must practice them afterward. It’s like playing a bone whistle. You might remember how a tune goes, but if you don’t practice playing it your fingers lose the knack.”