“Well, if nobody else has got the guts.”
Cemmo frowned as Roffin rose, but said nothing; he just slid off his chair and followed, a silent supporter. As Roffin strode toward the stranger, others looked up and nodded in approval.
The stranger watched him come, apparently unconcerned. Roffin leaned over the man, taking full advantage of his bulk.
“You’re in the wrong place,” he told him. “The place for you is on the other side of the road. Uptown.”
A smile thinned the stranger’s mouth.
“I like here,” he said in a deep, strangely accented voice.
Roffin straightened. “We don’t like you here. Go stare at your own kind.”
“I stay.” The man gestured at the seat opposite. “You stay. We drink.”
“You drink elsewhere,” Roffin growled. He reached for the stranger’s shoulders. The man’s eyes narrowed but he did not move. Roffin felt scorching heat envelop his fingers. He snatched his hand away, cursed and stared at his reddened skin.
“What did…?”
“You go,” the man said, with a note of warning in his voice.
Roffin took a few steps backward. The stranger was a sorcerer. No threats were going to budge him. Cemmo looked at Roffin questioningly. As Roffin glanced around the room, he realized that all the occupants were watching him. Had they seen what the man had done? Probably not. They just saw Roffin backing down to a highborn foreigner. Scowling, he turned on his heel and strode to the door.
“Take my money elsewhere,” he muttered as he left, slamming the door behind him. Once outside, however, he stopped, unsure what to do now. Cemmo hadn’t followed. Long habit made him note the sound of the surf pounding at the base of the cliff below and the whistle of the wind between the buildings. It would be a rough night on the water.
His hand throbbed. He looked down and decided he ought to get someone to see to it.
The priest. Yes, he’ll have a cure for it. Roffin glanced back at the drink shop and smiled. And I’m sure Priest Waiken will want to know there’s a foreign spy in town.
12
Rippling, surging water stretched in all directions. The reflected light of the rising sun formed ribbons of orange on its surface. Occasionally a seabird would soar past, seemingly oblivious to the ship or its occupants.
Looking to the west, Danjin could see a blue smudge of mountains above a thin, dark strip of land. The Sunset Range ran up the west coast of Hania to Mirror Strait, where it plunged into the water and formed a line of small islets leading to the larger Somreyan Islands. According to ancient histories some of those mountains had once spouted fire and ash, but now they were cold and silent.
“Danjin.”
He turned in surprise. Auraya rarely rose before dawn. Her long hair was plaited into a simple tail rather than the usual elaborate style. She was frowning.
“Good morning, Auraya of the White,” he said, making the gesture of the circle. “It is a beautiful morning, isn’t it?”
She glanced at the sunrise but her frown did not fade.
“Yes. It is.” She looked at him. “I will be leaving the ship in the next hour. Would you look after Mischief and ensure Leiard reaches his accommodation safely?”
Looking along the deck, Danjin noted that four crewmen were untying a small boat from where it had been securely tied up on deck for most of the trip.
“Of course,” he replied. She was biting her lip. He reached out but did not quite touch her arm. “Can you tell me what calls you away?”
She turned slowly, her gaze sweeping over the crew. “A little,” she said quietly. “Juran has received several reports of a Pentadrian priest, probably a spy, passing through villages and towns on the north Hanian coast. He has sent Dyara to capture the man and has asked me to approach from the north in order to cut off his escape.”
He nodded, understanding her apprehension. Her training in the use of her Gifts had barely begun. This could be her first sorcerous confrontation.
The gods will protect her, he told himself. And Dyara will probably turn it into a lesson, he added wryly.
Her lips curled into a small smile as she read his mind. “I will return to Jarime with Dyara, so I am leaving you in charge, Danjin Spear.”
“Does Leiard know that you are leaving, or why?”
She shook her head. “Tell him what I have told you, but to the rest say only that I have left to deal with some matter on the coast.”
He nodded. “I will.”
She fell silent, watching the distant coastline. As they drew closer to the land, Danjin fought a growing anxiety. She is one of the Gods’ Chosen, he reminded himself. She can look after herself.
He realized it was not her safety he worried about. She might be forced to kill this spy. It was not a burden he would wish on her any sooner than necessary.
If only Mairae had returned with us, he thought, instead of remaining behind to make arrangements for trade and other delegations to visit under the terms of the alliance. As soon as this thought came he knew it was an unworthy one. Mairae might be fully trained—or so he assumed—but she was as undeserving of the burden of a death on her hands as Auraya was.
The sun crept higher and the coast closer. The dark line Danjin had seen from a distance became a weathered black cliff. A building with several stout towers was visible, built close to the edge of the wall. The boat was lowered into the water. Auraya climbed nimbly down, joining the rowers inside.
Danjin leaned on the railing as he watched them row away. Auraya sat with a straight spine and did not look back.
“Adviser Danjin Spear.”
Danjin turned to find Leiard standing behind him. He wondered how long the Dreamweaver had been there.
“Yes, Dreamweaver Leiard?”
Leiard stepped up to the railing and stared out at the boat. “I gather Auraya will not be joining us for the morning meal.”
Danjin shook his head. “No. She has left to meet Dyara in order to deal with a Pentadrian spy and will return to Jarime by road.”
Leiard nodded. He watched the boat a moment longer, then turned to face Danjin again. The corners of his lips twitched upward. “Then we had best return below before the wafercakes cool.”
Danjin chuckled. Turning from the railing, he followed Leiard below deck.
As the boat neared the cliffs, Auraya wondered how they could possibly land safely. Waves crashed against the black vertical rock face, filling the air with salty spray. It was clear any craft attempting to moor here would be battered to pieces. The rowers heaved and hauled against the oars, propelling the boat around a bluff. A narrow beach of dark sand appeared, riddled with black rocks. Auraya breathed a sigh of relief as the crew headed for it.
Looking up, she made out a zigzagging line of stairs carved into the cliff face, leading to the top. The boat scraped against sand. The men pulled in their oars, jumped over the sides and, as a wave pushed the craft forward, hauled it up the beach.
Auraya rose and stepped out. As her sandals sank into the sand, water welled up and chilled her feet. She thanked the rowers, then left them dragging the boat back into the water as she started toward the base of the stairs.
The stairs were steep, narrow and worn to a dip in the center of each tread. She started climbing and was soon breathing deeply. The higher she climbed, the more disconcerting the drop to the shore became. Wind buffeted her, and she wondered uneasily what would happen to her if she fell. Dyara hadn’t taught her how to survive a fall. Would a defensive shield like the one used to protect her from a magical attack also save her from the impact of landing on the sand or rocks far below?
Perhaps it would be better not to think about it. Auraya resolutely turned her mind from the subject and continued her climb. Her thoughts soon returned to the task Juran had set her. The Pentadrian had been seen lurking about in drinking houses, perhaps hoping to overhear something of interest to his people. His description did not match the powerful sorcerer Rian had fough
t; he was older and dark haired. Yet she could not help but feel a little apprehensive.
There can’t be two sorcerers of such strength, Juran had assured her. We might encounter one once a century. This man has been staying in poor accommodations. I doubt his Gifts are as strong as those of a high priest or priestess.
When, at last, she reached the top of the cliff she was surprised to find a small crowd waiting for her. A village surrounded one side of the blackstone building atop the cliff edge.
A priest stepped forward. “Welcome to Caram, Auraya of the White. I am Priest Valem.”
She smiled. “Thank you, Priest Valem.”
He gestured to a well-dressed man with pale eyes and gray in his hair. “This is Borean Stonecutter, our village head.”
She inclined her head to the man, who made the formal two-handed sign of the circle. Others in the small gathering followed suit. She noted that they were plainly dressed. One still wore the scorched apron of a metalworker. Most avoided her eyes, while a few gazed at her in awe. She smiled warmly at them.
“I am also the owner of the watch-house,” Borean said, gesturing to the building on the edge of the cliff. “Priest Valem has arranged for you to stay there.”
“I would be honored to visit your home,” Auraya replied. “I hope I have not caused you inconvenience.”
“It is no trouble,” he replied. He beckoned politely and they began walking toward the house. The priest fell into step on her other side. “I let rooms to travellers from time to time, so I am not completely unprepared for visitors,” Borean assured her. “I cannot promise the comforts of Jarime, however.”
“Neither I, nor my fellow White, lead an extravagant life. Is the house very old?”
She did not have to feign interest as he told her of the long history of the building. It had been built by one of his ancestors many hundreds of years before, as both home and watchtower to warn of a sea invasion.
When they reached the door she paused to thank the villagers for meeting her. Once inside she encouraged Borean to take her through the house, the priest following silently. The interior was rich in artifacts, but not overly luxurious. They finished in one of the squat towers, where he presented a suite of rooms for her.
“I have arranged for local women to serve—”
A crash downstairs interrupted him, then a woman’s scream. The sound of running footsteps followed. Borean and Priest Valem exchanged puzzled glances, then the village head excused himself and moved to the entrance of the suite. As he reached it a man in a brown travelling tawl stepped into the doorway, blocking his exit. His eyes slid over the village head and the priest, and met Auraya’s.
Her skin prickled as he stared at her. There was something strange about him. His skin was pale but his eyes were so black she could not make out his pupils. That was not the source of the strangeness, however. She looked closer and her stomach sank as she realized what it was.
She could not read his mind.
“Who are—?” Borean began.
The man glanced at the village head. Borean tumbled backward. He landed heavily and clutched at his stomach, gasping for breath. Drawing magic, Auraya hastily created a protective barrier across the room between Borean and the sorcerer. The village head scrambled away from the door, still struggling to breathe. She stepped forward to take his arm and help him to his feet, not taking her eyes from the man in the doorway.
“Are you hurt?” she murmured to Borean.
“Just…win—ded,” he said hoarsely.
“Is there another way out of these rooms?”
He nodded.
“Good. Take the priest and go.”
:Juran, she called as the two men left via a side door.
:Yes?
:The Pentadrian spy is here.
:Already?
:Yes. She made the link stronger and let him see the sorcerer through her eyes.
:What can you glean from his mind?
:Nothing. I can’t read his mind. Is this a common Pentadrian skill?
:I don’t know. We have to consider the possibility. I will contact Dyara.
:He sought me out. There is no other reason for him to come into the house. Are you sure he’s a spy? That’s not spy-like behavior.
:He must think you are a priestess of some importance and he intends to force information out of you. I doubt he knows who you are.
“You must be Auraya of the White,” the Pentadrian said.
She stared at him in surprise.
:So much for that theory, she thought at Juran. Where is Dyara?
:An hour’s ride away, Dyara answered. Keep him talking, Auraya, and inside the house. I will be there soon.
“I am Auraya,” she said. “Who are you?”
“I am Kuar, First Voice of the Gods,” he replied.
:Great Chaia! The leader of the Pentadrians? Juran said incredulously. Why would the leader of a cult venture into the north alone? He must be lying.
The Pentadrian started moving toward her, one slow step at a time.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“I came to see you,” the sorcerer replied.
“Me? Why?”
“To learn…” He reached her barrier. As he spread his hands out before it his tawl parted to reveal black clothing and a silver star pendant. She frowned. A spy wouldn’t travel in a strange land with only a tawl to hide the dress of his people.
“What do you wish to learn?” she asked.
A blast of power battered her shield, sending whips of lightning-like magic across its surface. She gasped at the strength of it. The attack stopped and he regarded her coolly.
“How strong you heathens are,” he replied.
She fixed the Pentadrian with what she hoped was a cold stare. “Did that answer your question?”
The sorcerer shrugged. “Not quite.”
Auraya crossed her arms and stared defiantly. Inside she was trembling with shock.
:Juran, she said. I suspect your theory that one powerful sorcerer is born every hundred years is wrong. And I think your spy theory is wrong too.
:I fear you are right on both counts, Juran agreed. He is strong, but so are you.
:But I’ve barely learned more than how to shield myself!
:That’s all you need. When Dyara gets there she will deal with him.
The sorcerer’s eyes narrowed. A second blast of magic set her barrier humming. On either side of the room, stray magic scalded paint and set furnishings ablaze. As the attack increased, she drew more and more magic to resist it.
:By the gods he’s strong!
:Your shield is too large, Juran warned. Draw it in closer to yourself. You’ll find it more efficient.
She did as he advised. With the barrier abruptly gone, the sorcerer’s attack shattered paintings, furniture and windows. She felt a pang of guilt at the destruction.
The attack stopped. She watched the Pentadrian’s face. His eyes were thoughtful. He took another step forward.
“There are much more civilized ways of doing this,” she told him. “We could devise a test of some sort. Perhaps hold annual games. People would come from—”
As a brutally powerful blast battered her shield she put all her concentration into drawing and channelling magic. The man watched her intently, showing no sign of effort as his onslaught grew ever stronger. Then she found she could no longer draw magic fast enough to counter his attack. White light dazzled her as he broke down her defenses. She knew a brief instant of pure agony. Staggering backward, she gasped for air and looked down at herself. She was alive and, to her surprise, unhurt.
:Flee! Juran’s communication was like a shout in her mind. He is stronger. There is nothing more you can do.
The knowledge hit her like a physical blow. The Pentadrian could kill her. She felt a wave of terror and hastily created another shield. Looking up at the sorcerer she saw him smiling broadly. So much for immortality, she found herself thinking. People are going to remember m
e as the shortest-lived immortal in history! She took a few steps toward the side door and encountered an invisible force.
“No, no,” the Pentadrian said. “You are not leaving. I want to see if you call on your gods. Will they appear? That would be interesting. It would answer many questions.”
:Is there a window behind you? Dyara asked.
:Yes, but if I move toward it he will block me.
:Then you will have to resist him. It will take time for him to break down your defenses again. Use that time to get to the window.
Auraya backed away from the sorcerer. His smile widened and she suspected he thought her afraid of him and was pleased. I am afraid of him! She stepped into a square of light from the shattered window behind her and felt sunlight warm her calves. The sorcerer looked down at her feet and frowned. His gaze flickered to the window and his eyes narrowed.
An invisible force struck her shield. Though she fought it, she did not have the strength to stop herself from being forced backward against the wall. The window was an arm’s length away. The Pentadrian strode forward until he stood before her.
“Where are your gods?” he asked. “I know your strength. It will not take long to defeat you again. Call on your gods.”
The window was so close, but she could not move. The sorcerer shook his head.
“They don’t exist. You are deceivers. You deserve to die.”
He splayed his fingers before her chest. She tried to shrink away, but the wall was hard against her back. If only it were possible to pass through it…
But of course I can! Drawing power, she sent it backward in a great blast. The wall gave way with a deafening crack. She saw the sorcerer’s eyes widen in surprise as she fell away from him. She braced herself for the impact of her shield meeting the ground outside.
But it didn’t.
She continued to fall. As she turned upside down she saw sand and rocks and water rushing toward her.
I must stop!
She felt magic channel through her, answering the command of her mind. The sensation of falling ended in one wrenching jolt. For a moment she was too stunned to think. She sucked in one breath, then two. Slowly, she opened her eyes, not able to remember when she had closed them.
Priestess of the White Page 19
