“No. I just came to...” He reached up and touched his brow, flinching as his fingers found the stitches. He drew in a deep breath and straightened his back, then stood up. He swayed a moment, then took a few steps. The drug was wearing off quickly, and nobody was moving to stop the man as he walked with growing confidence across the room and back.
“I’m right,” he said. “Can I go now?”
Kleven shrugged and nodded. “I can see no reason why we should keep you here... except that there’s a hostile crowd outside. You’ll get another one of those scratches, at the least, if you try to leave.”
The man looked at Ella pointedly. “I’ll risk it.”
Kleven shrugged. “We won’t stop you, we can only warn you. I will release the door.”
Nobody stirred as the man started toward the door. Ella frowned. She ought to be glad he was leaving, his plan foiled. But something nagged at her. Why would Yranna let this man go if he had threatened the hospice? Yranna had said...
Then she realized what it was.
“Stop!” she cried, jumping up. The man ignored her.
“Ella...” Kleven began.
As the man put his hand to the door Ella drew magic and sent out a barrier to stop him. He pressed the invisible shield and turned to glare at her angrily.
“Ella!” Kleven barked. “Let him go!”
“No,” she replied calmly. “Yranna told me to immobilize him. She didn’t say why. Maybe it was to prevent him harming us. Maybe it was to prevent him leaving.”
The man backed away from the door and turned to face her, his face contorted with anger. She felt Kleven take hold of her arm.
“Ella. We can’t...”
His voice faded and she heard him draw in a quick breath. A rapping came from the door. Kleven let her go.
“Drop your barrier, Ella,” he murmured. “Rian of the White is here.”
She did as he asked. The door swung open. A man wearing an undecorated circ stepped over the threshold. Rian, the red-haired White, regarded the stranger with ancient eyes.
“You’ve led us quite a chase, Lemarn Shipmaker.”
The stranger backed away, his face pale. A high priestess stepped into the hospice. At a nod from Rian, she gestured at the man. He walked stiffly past her and through the door, obviously guided by an invisible force.
Rian turned to regard the hospice occupants. “The troublemakers have prudently found other places to be. You can leave safely now. Or stay and continue your work or treatment, as you wish.”
From around the room came several sighs of relief. Kleven stepped forward and made the formal two-handed sign of the circle.
“Thank you, Rian of the White.”
Rian nodded, then looked at Ella. “Well done, Priestess Ellareen. We’ve been looking for this man for months. The gods are impressed with your loyalty and obedience. I would not be surprised if I heard you had been offered a timely high priestess position.”
She stared at him in astonishment. He turned away, obviously not expecting a reply, and stepped outside.
A timely high priestess position? Surely he isn’t hinting that... no, he wouldn’t.
But the Choosing Ceremony for the next White was only a month away. What other reason was there for a promotion to high priestess to be timely?
I have only to wait and see.
Feeling light-headed, she walked back into the hospice and returned to her work.
PART ONE
1
The constant rush of cascading water echoed between the walls. As Emerahl moved further down the tunnel the noise diminished, but so did the light. She drew a little magic and created a spark, then sent it forward to the end of the tunnel and beyond.
Everything was as she had left it: the rough beds in the center of the cave, made of logs lashed together and tough strips of bark woven into a tight net; the stone bowls Mirar had carved while stuck here last summer, waiting until he could master the skill of hiding his mind from the gods; the jars, boxes and bags of dried or preserved food and cures stacked against one wall, gathered over the months they had lived here.
Only one essential part of the cave could not be seen. Moving forward slowly, she felt the magic that imbued the world about her diminish to nothing and she smiled with satisfaction. Keeping her light burning with the magic she had gathered within herself, she continued to the center of the room, where magic once more surrounded her. She was within the void.
Sighing, she sat down on one of the beds. When she had returned here last spring, she had noted that the space devoid of magic had shrunk since her last visit over a century ago. Slowly the magic of the world was seeping back to fill it. That suggested the original void had been even larger before she’d discovered it, and would eventually no longer exist.
For now it would suffice. She had travelled through the rough wild land of Si, a journey which involved a lot more climbing than walking, in order to reach this place. At every second step she had cursed Mirar, her fellow immortal and friend, for talking her into teaching Auraya. Every other step she had cursed The Twins, immortals even more ancient than herself and Mirar, who she had finally met for the first time a few months ago, for agreeing with him.
:We must know what Auraya is, Tamun had said to her in a dream-link, the night after Mirar had made his request. If she becomes an immortal she could also become a valuable ally.
:What if she can’t do it?
:She must still be a powerful sorceress, Surim had replied with uncharacteristic seriousness. Remember, the gods do not like independent sorcerers any more than they like us immortals. If we do not help her they will kill her.
:Will they? Just because she has quit the White doesn’t mean she has turned against them, Emerahl had pointed out. Auraya is still a priestess. She still serves the gods.
:Her mind is full of doubts, Tamun said. The gods’ demand that she kill Mirar without trial weakened her regard for them.
Emerahl nodded. She knew this herself. Once Auraya had removed the ring of the gods’ power her mind had no longer been shielded. With help from The Twins, Emerahl had learned to mind-skim and had occasionally seen Auraya’s thoughts.
The trouble is, while Auraya’s loyalty toward some gods has been weakened she still feels a need to at least remain on good terms with them. If she discovers who I am, she will know the gods want me dead. And she doesn’t have a prior friendship with me to make her reluctant to strike, as she had with Mirar.
She had seen enough of Auraya’s mind to know the former White did not like killing. If their meeting went well the gods wouldn’t even know Emerahl was here. She looked around the room again. The gods were beings of magic, and so could only exist where there was magic. They could not enter these rare, unexplained voids, nor could they see what lay within unless they looked through the eyes of humans standing outside it. Once Auraya was here the gods would not be able to read her mind.
There was still a good chance Emerahl had travelled halfway across the continent for nothing. She could not make Auraya learn anything. She would have to be careful what she told the woman, too. If Auraya left the void before learning to hide her thoughts, the gods would read her mind.
Emerahl shook her head and sighed again. This is such a risk. It’s all very well for The Twins, safely hidden away in the Red Caves in distant Sennon, or Mirar in Southern Ithania. They don’t have to worry that Auraya will change her mind and decide killing immortals without due cause is acceptable.
But The Twins’ help was invaluable. Every day and night they reached out to minds across the continents, skimming thoughts, alert to the intentions and actions of powerful people. The pair had honed these skills over thousands of years. They knew mortals so well, they could predict their behavior with uncanny accuracy.
Mirar had always said that the Wilds - or Immortals, as The Twins called them - each had an innate Gift. Emerahl’s was her ability to change her age, Mirar’s was his unsurpassed ability to heal. The Twins’ was mind
-skimming. The Gull’s... she wasn’t sure exactly what his was, but she was sure it had something to do with the sea.
And Auraya’s, Mirar claimed, was her ability to fly. Emerahl felt a twinge of interest ease her annoyance at being here. I wonder if she can teach it to others. Mirar taught me to heal, though I can’t do it as well as he can. Perhaps I won’t be able to fly as well as she can... actually, flying doesn’t sound like an ability one can safely do less well at. Ineptitude could be fatal.
She snorted then. It’s worth a try, though. There has to be some benefit in this for me. It would be easier to like the idea of teaching this girl if I’m compensated for having to put off my search for the Scroll of the Gods.
The Twins had told her that they’d picked up rumors of an artifact that described the War of the Gods from the viewpoint of a long-dead goddess. Emerahl had decided to find it. Such a record might contain information useful to the Immortals. Information that might help them evade the gods’ notice, or survive if they failed. It might even give them the means to fight back.
According to The Twins, scholars in Southern Ithania had been searching for the Scroll for decades. They had made progress lately, but were still lacking enough information to discover the Scroll’s location. The Twins had assured her that these scholars were not about to find it soon, however. She had time enough to teach Auraya.
She moved to the jars and pots and began looking over the cures and preserved food.
But first I need to gather some food. And then I have to figure out a way to get Auraya to come here, and persuade her to stay for a while, all without arousing the gods’ suspicions.
The ship climbed steadily up one side of a wave, paused for a moment at the crest, then plunged down the other side. Mirar gripped the railing, half terrified, half exhilarated. Spray constantly wet him, but he didn’t retreat below deck. The wind and water were a welcome relief from the heat in the small passenger compartment.
And the old man doesn’t need me around to remind him that he’s dying, Mirar told himself.
He’d treated Rikken in one of the small ports along the Avven coast. Tough and wiry, the old merchant had grown anxious at Mirar’s assessment of his failing health. It was not the news that he was dying that bothered him, but that he might not expire in his homeland.
So he had asked Mirar to accompany him on his final journey home to Dekkar, in the hope that having a healer on hand would ensure he returned alive. Mirar had agreed out of restlessness and curiosity. He had encountered no hostility toward Dreamweavers in Avven, but the unending sameness of the towns he had passed through had begun to bore him. The buildings were made of mud-coated brick like those in Sennon, but did not vary in color or design. The people, men and women, wore drab clothing and covered their faces with veils. Even their music was monotonous.
I’m not looking for trouble, he told himself, remembering Emerahl’s accusation during their last dream-link. I like to travel and explore. It’s been a long time since I was free to do so. One of the crew hurried past Mirar, nodding and smiling as their eyes met. And these southerners are friendly, Mirar added, nodding in return.
He looked toward the coast again. A low rock face had appeared the day before and now it soared higher than the cliffs of Toren. Ahead its shadow abruptly ended, and he was beginning to make out the reason.
Time passed slowly, the ship only allowing a glimpse of the coast at the crest of each wave. Mirar waited patiently. Then, between one wave and another, the end of the cliff came into view.
The high rock face turned abruptly inland, its sheer sides dropping to a low, forested land fringed by gentle beaches. The change was extraordinary: bare rock to lush vegetation. The cliff continued to the east, folding back and forth into the distance, growing even higher than at the coast.
The sight was startling. It looked as if the land to the west had been levered up in an enormous slab, shifted forward and deposited on top of that of the east.
Is this natural? Mirar asked himself. Or did some being - god or otherwise - heave up the land long ago?
“Dreamweaver?”
Mirar looked for the source of the voice, and found the crewman standing nearby, a rope in one hand. The other hand pointed toward the forested land.
“Dekkar,” the man explained. Mirar nodded, and the crewman went back to his work with the speed of long practice.
So this was Rikken’s homeland. Dekkar, southernmost of all countries, was famous for its jungle. The cliff was a natural barrier and border between it and Avven. As if obeying some local law, the seas had calmed. The crew put on more sail, and their pace quickened.
For the next few hours Mirar listened to the men talking, guessing at the meaning of their words. An unfamiliar language was a difficulty he hadn’t needed to overcome in a millennium. The dialects of Southern Ithania were descended from a branch of languages far older than Mirar, and so there were few words recognizably related to those of the main continent. So far he had learned enough basic words of the Avven tongue to get by, and from the Dreamweavers he’d encountered he had gleaned most of what he needed to work as a healer.
His own people were more numerous here than in the north. They did not exist in the numbers they once had, but the general populace appeared to accept and respect them, as they did the followers of other “cults.” Even so, he had avoided the few Pentadrian Servants he had seen. Though local Dreamweavers assured him that Servants were tolerant of heathens, he was also a northerner. Those sick Pentadrians who had learned where he had come from had either refused his help, or reluctantly accepted it if he was in the company of local Dreamweavers. He did not expect the priests and priestesses of their religion to feel any differently.
The cliff that was the edge of Avven loomed over the forest like a great wave that threatened to crash down on Dekkar at any moment. As they sailed further south it withdrew slowly to become a bluish shadow as straight as the horizon. At intervals, buildings appeared along the coast. Standing on high stilts, they were constructed mainly of wood and connected by raised walkways, though here and there, usually in the midst of a town, a stone structure stood out. These stone edifices were painted black with the star symbol of the Five Gods outlined prominently in white.
The sun hung low on the horizon when the ship finally turned toward the shore. It tacked into a bay crowded with vessels and surrounded by the largest gathering of buildings Mirar had seen so far. The broad platforms the houses were built upon connected with neighbors via bridges of rope and slats or, occasionally, brightly painted wood.
Catching the talkative crewman’s eye, Mirar glanced toward the town questioningly.
“Kave,” the man told him.
This was Dekkar’s main city and Rikken’s home. Mirar started toward the hold. The old merchant was being kept alive as much by his own determination as Mirar’s help. Now that he was home, it was possible that his determination might fade too quickly to get him to shore.
So he stopped, surprised, when Rikken stepped out of the hold on wobbly legs. Yuri, the man’s servant and constant companion, was supporting one arm. Mirar stepped forward to take the other.
The old man’s eyes sought the town and he gave a small sigh.
“The Sanctuary of Kave,” he said. Mirar recognized the word “sanctuary,” but could only guess at the mumble that followed. Yuri was frowning, but he didn’t speak as Rikken moved to the rail. From somewhere a crewman produced a stool, and Rikken lowered himself onto it to wait.
The ship worked its way into the bay, dropped anchor, then much fuss was made of lowering Rikken gently into a boat. Mirar collected his bag from the hold and joined the old man.
Crewmen swung down to pick up the oars, and the little boat began to move toward the city. When they reached the wharf, Mirar and Yuri helped Rikken disembark. Mirar noted that the stilts the houses were built upon were whole tree trunks and together they looked like a sturdy, leafless forest.
Yuri arranged for two of the sa
ilors to carry Rikken up a staircase to the platform above. Two others lifted up a litter that had been stowed on the boat. Once they had reached the interconnected platforms of the city, Rikken slumped onto the litter and the four sailors lifted it up. Mirar watched as they started in the direction of the Sanctuary. He bade the old man a silent farewell.
As if hearing Mirar’s thoughts, the old man looked back at him and frowned. He croaked something and the men stopped.
“You come with us,” Yuri explained.
Mirar hesitated, then nodded. I’ll accompany him as far as the Sanctuary, he told himself. After that I’ll take my leave and seek out the local Dreamweaver House. He followed as the crew carried Rikken from one house veranda to another, watched by the inhabitants of Kave.
A maze of verandas and bridges followed. The sailors could not carry the litter across the less stable rope bridges, so they were forced to take a winding path. Over an hour passed before they reached the Sanctuary.
It was a massive stepped pyramid, rising from the muddy soil below. Though squat, it had a heavy, sober presence which made even the more robust wooden houses seem small and temporary. Several Servants hovered around the outside. Mirar moved closer to the litter.
“It has been an honor—” he began.
Rikken turned to look at Mirar. His face was deathly pale and glistened with sweat. Mirar’s farewell died in his throat as he realized the old man was close to having another seizure. Yuri gave a low gasp and began urging the sailors to hurry.
As the group hastened toward the Sanctuary entrance, Mirar sighed and followed them. I guess it’s time to find out how these Pentadrian Servants are going to react to a northern Dreamweaver.
Servants moved to intercept then guide the merchant into the Sanctuary. Once in the cool interior the litter was lowered to the floor. The old man was clutching his chest now. Yuri looked at Mirar expectantly.
Mirar crouched beside Rikken and took his hand. Sending his mind forth, he sensed that the man’s heart was failing. Normally he would let the man die; his only malady was age. But he had been asked to ensure the man reached his home, and he was conscious that many black-robed men and women were watching him.
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