[Age of the Five 01] - Priestess of the White Page 9

Juran smiled. “I look forward to hearing any suggestions you have, Auraya.” She smiled back, but he had already turned away. “Rian. What of Dunway?”

  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.”

  5

  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.”

  “We don’t want any of your poisons or tricks, sorceress.” Erine’s eyes gleamed. “We want justice. You’ve meddled one
time too many. You won’t make any more women in our village into sorceress bitches. We’re turning you out.”

  She stared at him in surprise, then slowly began to smile.

  “So you’re the father?”

  His expression shifted. A moment’s fear, then anger.

  “Yes. I’d kill you for what you did to my little Rinnie, but the others think that’ll bring bad luck.”

  “No, they just don’t feel like they’ve lost as much as you,” she said. “They were just trying their luck with Rinnie. Seeing what you’d let them get away with. But you,” she narrowed her eyes, “you’ve been enjoying her for years and now you can’t touch her. And you so like getting your way. It drives you crazy you can’t have her anymore.”

  His face had turned red. “Shut your mouth,” he growled, “or I’ll—”

  “Your own daughter,” she threw at him. “You come up here calling her ‘my little Rinnie’ like she’s some innocent child you love and protect. She stopped being an innocent child the first time she realized her own father was the man most likely to harm her.”

  The other men were eyeing their leader uneasily now. Emerahl was not sure if their discomfort was from what she accused Rinnie’s father of, or because they had known what he was doing to his daughter and hadn’t stopped him. Erine, aware of their stares, controlled himself with an effort.

  “Did she tell you that, you foolish old woman? She’s been making up such stories for years. Always looking for—”

  “No, she didn’t,” Emerahl replied. She tapped her head. “I can see the truth, even when people don’t want me to.”

  Which was not true; she hadn’t read the girl’s mind. Her skill in mind-reading was nothing like it had once been. All Gifts needed to be practiced and she had lived in isolation for too long.

  But her words had the desired effect. The other men exchanged glances, some regarding Erine with narrowed eyes.

  “We don’t want your lies or your cursed sorceries anymore,” Erine growled. He took a step forward. “I’m ordering you to leave.”

  Emerahl smiled and crossed her arms. “No.”

  “I am Head of Corel and—”

  “Corel is down there.” She pointed. “I have lived here since before your grandfathers’ fathers built their first shack. You have no authority over me.”

  Erine laughed. “You’re old, but you’re not that old.” He looked at his companions. “See how she lies?” He turned back. “The village doesn’t want you harmed. They want to give you the chance to pack up and leave in peace. If you’re still here when we come back in a few days, don’t expect us to be nice about it.”

  At that, he turned and stalked away, gesturing for the others to follow. Emerahl sighed. Fools. They’ll come back and I’ll have to teach them the same lesson I taught their great-grandfathers. They’ll sulk for a while and try to starve me out. I’ll miss the vegetables and bread, and I’ll have to go fishing again, but in time they’ll forget and come looking for help once more.

  Six men waited outside the Forest Edge Wayhouse: three priests and three locals. The blue trim of the priests’ circs looked black in the fading light. The other men wore the simple clothes of farmers and carried packs.

  Adem flexed his shoulders to shift the weight of his gear into a more comfortable position, then stepped into the street. From behind him came the reassuring footsteps of his fellow vorn-hunters. One, then all of the priests and their companions turned to regard the newcomers. He smiled as they eyed his clothing with obvious dismay. Hunters travelled light, especially in the forest. They might carry one spare set of clothes to change into after a day’s butchering, but those, too, quickly became stained with blood and dirt.

  In the trade, clean clothes were a sign of a failed hunter. Adem wryly noted the spotless white circs of his employers. He supposed dirty garments would not be an encouraging sign on a priest. It must be a chore keeping them clean.

  “I’m Adem Tailer,” he said. “This is my team.” He didn’t bother introducing the men. The priests would not remember a list of names.

  “I am Priest Hakan,” the taller of the priests replied. “This is Priest Barew and Priest Poer.” He gestured to a gray-haired priest, then a slightly portly one, and then waved at the three locals. “These are our porters.”

  Adem made the quick one-handed gesture of the circle to the priests and nodded politely at the porters. The locals looked apprehensive. As well they might.

  “Thank you for volunteering your services,” Hakan added.

  Adem gave a short bark of laughter. “Volunteer? We’re no volunteers, priest. We want the skins. From what I hear these vorns are big bastards and all black. Pelts like that will fetch a high price.”

  Priest Hakan’s mouth twitched up at one corner but his two companions grimaced in distaste. “I’m sure they will,” he replied. “Now, how do you recommend we proceed?”

  “We look for tracks where the last attack happened.”

  Hakan nodded. “We’ll take you there.”

  Faces appeared in windows as they passed through the village. Voices called out, wishing them luck. A woman hurried out of a door with a tray of small cups, each brimming with tipli, the local liquor. The hunters downed theirs cheerfully, while the porters gulped their share with telling haste. The priests took one sip before returning their cups to the tray unfinished.

  They moved on out of the village. The dark shapes of trees pressed in on either side. The portly priest lifted a hand and everyone was dazzled as a bright light appeared.

  “No light,” Adem said. “You’ll frighten them off if they’re close. The moon will rise soon. It should give us enough light once our eyes are used to it.”

  The priest glanced at Hakan, who nodded. The light blinked out, leaving them to stumble forward in darkness until their eyes adjusted. Time passed slowly, measured by the tread of their boots. Just as the moon struggled up from the tops of the trees Priest Hakan stopped.

  “That smell…this must be the place,” he said.

  Adem looked at the portly priest. “Can you make a soft light?”

  The priest nodded. He extended a hand again and a tiny spark of light appeared. Adem saw the remains of a platten ahead. They walked over to the vehicle, which was listing to one side on a broken wheel. The stench grew stronger as they approached and its source proved to be the corpse of an arem, gouged out where the vorns had eaten part of it.

  The ground was covered in tracks—huge pawprints that set Adem’s heart pounding with excitement. He tried to estimate the number of them. Ten? Fifteen? The prints congregated in a mass of churned ground. Fresher human ones crossed them. Adem noticed something glittering. He reached down and plucked a short length of gold chain from the trampled soil. It was covered in a crusty substance he suspected was dried blood.

  “That’s where they found the merchant,” Hakan murmured. “Or what was left of him.”

  Adem pocketed the links. “All right, men. Scout about and find tracks leading away.”

  It did not take long. Soon Adem was leading the priests into the forest, following a trail that wouldn’t have been easier to follow had the giant footprints glowed in the dark. They were a day behind the hunt, he estimated. He hoped the priests were prepared for a long trek. He did not call for a stop until the moon was directly overhead, then gave them only a few minutes to rest.

  After a few more hours they reached a small clearing. Vorn tracks filled the space—and human. A single set of bootprints marked the forest floor. They had found no human footprints since the site of the attack. Adem’s men scurried through the forest.

  “Looks like they stopped last night,” he murmured.

  “They went this way,” one called softly.

  “Any human footprints leading away?” Adem asked.

  There was a long pause.

  “No.”

  “Witnesses say he rides one of them,” Hakan said.

  Adem moved to Hakan’s side. “Wouldn’t have
thought it possible. But I guess they’re big enough. I—”

  “Sentry!” one of his men hissed.

  The hunters froze. Adem cast about, searching the forest and listening.

  “Sentry?” Hakan whispered.

  “Sometimes the hunt leaves a single member behind to wait and see if they’re being followed.”

  The priest stared at Adem. “They’re that smart?”

  “You’d better believe it.” A faint sound drew Adem’s attention to the right and he heard his men suck in a breath as they, too, saw a shadow slink away. A huge shadow. Adem cursed.

  “What’s wrong?” Hakan asked.

  “The hunt knows we’re coming, I doubt we’ll catch them now.”

  “That depends,” the priest murmured.

  “Oh?” Adem couldn’t hide the skepticism in his voice. What did priests know of vorns?

  “On whether the rider slows them. Or wants us to find him.”

  He has a point. Adem grunted in reluctant agreement.

  “Let us continue,” Hakan said.

  For the next few hours they crept through the forest, following a trail now half a day fresher. The darkness thickened as the night reached that time, just before morning, when all was still and cold. The priests yawned. The scouts trudged after them, now too tired to fear. Adem’s fellow hunters walked with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. He had to agree. Their chances of catching the hunt were slim now.

  Then a human scream tore through the silence. Adem heard several curses and unslung his bow. The sound had been close. Perhaps one of the trackers…

  The forest filled with leaping shadows and snapping teeth.

  “Light!” Adem shouted. “Priest! Light!”

  More screams came. Screams of terror and pain. Adem heard a soft patter and turned to see a shadow leap toward him. There was no time to nock an arrow. He grabbed his knife, ducked and rolled, and thrust upward. Something caught it, ripping the blade from his grip. There was an inhuman garbled cry of pain and the sound of something landing heavily nearby.

  Then light finally flooded the forest. Adem found himself staring into the yellow eyes of the largest vorn he had ever seen. In the corner of his vision he could see white figures. Adem dared not take his eyes from those of the beast to look. The vorn whined as it got to its feet. Blood dripped from the matted hair of its belly. Adem weighed his chances. It was close, but in pain and perhaps weakened from blood loss. There was no use running away. Even wounded these creatures could outrun a man in ten strides. He groped for an arrow.