Looking at the tense men and women nearby, she smiled. They didn’t know what to make of her. She was a young woman dressed in plain clothes roaming alone near a battlefield—too good-looking to be a solitary whore. When she had told them she was seeking the source of the tower dream and her theory that the dream was a link memory of Mirar’s death, the two men leading the group had moved away to have a long, private discussion.
“There is one among our kind who may be the dreamer you seek,” they had told her when they returned. “He has many link memories of Mirar’s. After we have done our work, we will take you to him.”
So she had waited with them and had seen the conclusion to the biggest battle ever waged on Northern Ithanian soil. It was hard to resist the opportunity. She had spent so much of her life avoiding conflict that she had rarely witnessed events that were likely to become legends.
Now I have something to relate around dinner tables and campfires, and my audience will never fail to be impressed, even millennia from now, she thought wryly.
Below, the White and black sorcerers parted. They moved slowly out of the valley. The body of the Pentadrian leader was lifted and carried away.
“They let them surrender,” one of the Dreamweavers said, clearly surprised.
“Perhaps even they acknowledge that there has been enough slaughter today.”
“I doubt it.”
Emerahl was inclined to agree with the last speaker, but she remained silent. Many of the Circlian fighters, priests and priestesses had remained in the valley and were moving among the dead and dying. So were some of the Pentadrians.
“It is time,” the leader of the Dreamweaver group said.
Emerahl felt the tension ease. Determination replaced it. The Dreamweavers started down the valley carrying bags of medicines, followed by students laden with sacks full of bandages and skins of water.
She could not join them. There were priests and priestesses still down there. If she roamed about, the only healer not wearing a Dreamweaver vest or Circlian circ, she would attract attention.
Then I need to blend in. I need Dreamweaver robes…
She turned to look at the tarns. There were bound to be a few spare garments in them. Surely the Dreamweavers wouldn’t mind if she borrowed a set?
Standing up, she strode back toward the Dreamweaver camp.
Priest Tauken stepped over a headless corpse and stopped. A young soldier lay a few strides away, arms wrapped tightly around his chest. He could hear the man gasping for breath. Moving to the soldier’s side, Tauken dropped into a crouch. The young man looked up at him, eyes wide with hope.
“Help me,” he gasped.
“Let me see,” Tauken replied.
The young man’s arms parted reluctantly. Clearly the movement caused him pain, but the only sound he managed was a whimper.
The soldier was wearing an iron chest-plate, but even that could not stop a blow by a good sword. A large gash in the plate glistened with blood.
“We have to get this off.”
The soldier allowed him to remove the armor. His gaze was growing dull. Tauken ripped away the clothing around the wound and bent close. He could hear a faint sucking sound. It came in time with the man’s breathing. His heart sank. There would be no saving this one.
As he rose, the two camp servants sent to help him regarded him expectantly. He looked at them and made a small gesture with his hand to indicate they would not be stopping. They nodded and looked away, and their expressions suddenly brightened with hope.
Tauken turned to see what they were looking at. A Dreamweaver woman stood nearby, watching him. From her looks he guessed she was Somreyan.
“Are you finished?” she asked.
Juran had decreed that the law against using Dreamweaver services had been lifted for the day. Tauken opened his mouth, then hesitated. To say “yes” aloud would be to tell the dying soldier he was done for. Instead, he nodded.
She moved forward and looked down at the man. “A chest wound. His lungs have been penetrated.”
As she kneeled before the soldier, Tauken turned away. He took a few steps then stopped as the woman gave a piercing whistle. Looking back, he saw a younger Dreamweaver hurry to her side. She took bandages from him, and lifted a small bowl for him to fill with water from a pitcher. As the young man hurried away again, answering another whistle, she took a small jar from her vest and tipped powder from it into the water.
Tauken knew he should move on, but curiosity kept him still. Her hands moving with practiced speed, the Dreamweaver bathed the wound then put the bloodied cloth aside. She paused. Tauken saw her shoulders rise and fall as she drew in and let out a deep breath, then she placed a hand on the wound and closed her eyes.
There was something wrong about all this. Seeing her using her Dreamweaver magic, Tauken finally realized what it was.
“You did not ask if he wanted your help,” he said.
She frowned, opened her eyes and turned to regard him.
“He is unconscious.”
“And so can hardly decide for himself.”
“Then you must decide for him,” she said calmly.
He stared at her. Once he would have told her to leave. Better the young soldier die than risk his soul by being healed by a Dreamweaver. But he knew he would want to live if he was the young man. If Juran could lift the ban for a day then the gods must intend to forgive those who chose to use Dreamweaver services.
Who am I to deny this man life? Accepting a Dreamweaver’s help does not mean a man or woman becomes one. And we could learn a lot from them.
He just hoped the young man agreed.
“Heal him,” he said. Beckoning to his helpers, he led them away.
“Gods forgive me,” he muttered to himself.
The Circlian camp was lit by a thousand torches. It ought to have been a cheerful sight, but those lights illuminated a grim scene.
Toward the end of the battle vorns had attacked the camp, killing defenseless servants and animals. Auraya could see survivors doing their best to tidy up the mess. Some were carrying corpses away, others were seeing to the wounded. Reyer that had lost their riders had been caught and were being used to carry others less fortunate to the edge of the camp.
Seeing this, Auraya almost wished she and her fellow White had finished the Pentadrians off.
The gods were right to let them live. I don’t like unnecessary slaughter. I don’t like necessary slaughter either, but killing a defeated enemy is too much like cold-blooded murder.
They had wanted to rid the world of the black sorcerers. Now, on reflection, she could see what the consequences might have been. The battle would have continued for a while longer and more people would have been killed.
She could also see that allowing the four black sorcerers to return to the southern continent might still be a decision they’d come to regret in the future. If the Pentadrian leader was replaced by an equally powerful sorcerer, Northern Ithania might face another invasion. However, it was extraordinary that five powerful sorcerers had been born in the last century or so. It was unlikely that another would be soon.
These southerners will think twice before confronting us again, Auraya told herself. She thought of the glowing figure she had seen after the Pentadrians had emerged from the mines. Whether illusion or new god, he clearly hadn’t ensured their victory. That, too, will give them reason to hesitate if they consider attempting another conquest.
Whereas our gods, through us, have protected Northern Ithania successfully. She smiled, but felt the smile fade. Since the moment the Pentadrian leader had died, she had replayed the scene over and over in her mind. Not to gloat at having dealt the fatal blow, but to work out what had happened.
She remembered it all clearly. There had been a new awareness of magic. She could sense it just as she could sense her position in relation to the world. If she concentrated, she could return to that state of awareness. Somehow it had enabled her to take and use more mag
ic than ever before.
The other White had been surprised at the strength of her attack. From time to time she caught Juran regarding her with a puzzled frown. Perhaps she had learned to use her Gifts faster than he had expected her to. The others hadn’t been forced to gain skills quickly by war, however.
Or perhaps Juran was just surprised that she, rather than he, had been the one to deal the killing blow. If he was, he was not resentful about it. He seemed pleased with her. She accepted this approval a little warily, wondering if it extended to forgiveness for her affair with Leiard.
At the thought of Leiard she felt a stab of pain and was glad she was no longer closely linked with the other White. She straightened her back. He was a mistake of the past. A lesson in the perils of love. Now, after the battle, her infatuation seemed childish and foolish. It was time to think of more important things: the recovery of her people—and of the Siyee.
A lone mounted rider galloped back to the White. Auraya watched him, welcoming the distraction. The advisers had reported that King Guire and Moderator Meeran had returned a few hours after fleeing the vorns’ attack. King Berro, however, had not been seen.
The rider reined in before Juran. “No sign of him yet, Juran of the White. We could send a second group of trackers.”
“Yes,” Juran replied. “Do that.”
The man hurried away. The White continued down the slope toward the camp. When they had nearly reached it, Auraya heard a familiar high-pitched voice call her name. She heard Danjin let out a relieved sigh as Mischief leapt down from the roof of a tarn and bounced over the muddy ground toward her. Two more veez followed him, one black, one orange. As Mischief ran up Auraya’s robe onto her shoulders, the other veez raced to Mairae and Dyara.
“Little escapee,” Dyara said, scratching the bright orange head of her pet. She looked at Mischief suspiciously. “Is he teaching Luck bad habits?”
Auraya smiled. “Probably. Does he—?”
Hearing the sound of wings, Auraya felt her heart skip. She looked up eagerly, and sighed with relief to see Speaker Sirri and two other Siyee circling down. As they landed, Juran stepped forward to meet them.
“Speaker Sirri. We are indebted to you and your people. You have been invaluable to us today.”
Sirri’s smile was grim. “It was our first experience of war. We have learned much today, at great cost, although our losses are nothing to yours. When the vorns attacked our non-fighters, they were able to escape.”
“All losses are equally terrible,” Juran replied. “Our healer priests will tend to Siyee wounded as well as landwalker.”
Sirri looked bemused, and Auraya saw images of the hundreds of Dreamweavers that had descended upon the battlefield in the woman’s thoughts.
“Then I will send the non-fighters of my people, who are fresh and able to carry small loads quickly, to help them.”
Juran nodded. “Their help would be most welcome. Is there anything else you need?”
“No. I just learned something that you may be interested to hear. One of my people noticed a man sitting in a tree to the northwest of here. My hunter said she was attracted by his shouting, but dared not land as she could hear one of those large predatory creatures of the enemy nearby.”
Juran’s eyebrows rose. “That is interesting. Could you send this hunter to us so that we may locate this man?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you, Speaker Sirri.”
She nodded, then stepped away. “I will gather my people and send as many helpers as I can to you.”
Her companions followed as she ran down the hill, leapt into the air and glided away. Juran turned to Auraya.
“I think it would be best if you accompanied this hunter.”
:Just…don’t rub it in too much, he added. There’s a fine line between earning gratitude and resentment.
:I imagine that for King Berro the line is fine indeed. I will be careful.
“This poor man will need a mount to carry him back,” she said aloud.
Juran smiled. “Yes, and familiar faces to ease the shock of his situation.”
She nearly laughed aloud. With a few landwalkers present to witness the rescue, everyone would know the Toren king owed the Siyee his life.
And that couldn’t be a bad thing.
48
Areas of depleted magic were everywhere, but that was normal for a battlefield. To compensate, Leiard only had to concentrate on the sense of magic around him and draw from less depleted patches.
He channelled magic through himself into the injured man, shifting bone and flesh until a sense of rightness began to form. Liquids returned to their correct channels. Flashes of energy shot up and down repaired pathways. He heard the man gasp with pain and quickly blocked the nerve thread again, this time in a way that could be easily reversed.
Working along the leg, Leiard repaired the rest of the damage. He passed a hand over the man’s skin, feeling a deep satisfaction at the scar-free result, then unblocked the man’s nerve pathways and went in search of another patient.
He had only to open his mind and any lingering thought of the wounded or dying would guide him. Befuddled, dim thoughts drew him to a Pentadrian sorcerer. The woman had been dealt a blow to the head that had left a bloody crater.
I can’t save this one, he thought. Her mind will be damaged.
Yes, you can, Mirar whispered. I will help you.
Leiard crouched beside the woman and placed his hand over the wound. He let Mirar guide him. The work was so fine he scarcely dared to breathe. Mirar’s will blended with his as it had so many times this night, so that he almost began to feel he was losing himself. That brought a sense of panic, but he held it back. For the woman’s sake.
Leiard felt the crater in the woman’s skull expand under his hand. Bone knitted. Liquids and swelling within the brain drained away. Damaged areas were repaired.
Will she return completely to normal? Leiard asked.
No, she will have some memory loss, Mirar replied. Not necessarily a slice of her past. More likely she will have to relearn something, like how to talk, or dance—or see.
I did not know that was possible.
You did. You have just forgotten.
The woman was healed. She opened her eyes and stared at Leiard in surprise. Then she rose to her feet and looked around the battlefield. Leiard turned her to face the Pentadrian side of the valley, then pointed. She nodded, then started walking.
Leiard turned away. Pain and grief drew him to a young Siyee man, his legs and arms bent in places and directions that they would not naturally go. A young female Siyee kneeled beside him, sobbing.
Another victim of a fall, Mirar observed. His back may be broken, too.
This would take a lot of magic and concentration. Leiard ignored the crying girl, kneeled beside the Siyee and began to draw in magic.
Danjin woke with a start. He was lying beside a fire. Flames licked at a fresh piece of wood. From the shape he guessed it was a piece of broken shaft from a war platten.
How long have I been asleep?
He sat up. A servant was walking away from him, probably the man who had brought the wood. He looked around at the camp. Fewer lamps burned now. A handful of people still moved about, but quietly. There was a stillness to everything. No wind. Little sound.
Then he looked beyond. The sky was glowing faintly in the east.
Dawn. It’s dawn. I slept most of the night.
He hadn’t meant to. He had only stopped for a warm drink and a little food. Sleeping on the ground had left him feeling stiff and sore. Without any destination in mind, he rose, stretched and began to walk.
His legs took him to one side of the camp. He was cheered to see a dead vorn there, a variety of arrows, knives and even splinters of wood embedded in its side. A long line of bodies lay beyond it—the servants who had died. It was a grim sight, but nothing in comparison to the battlefield on the other side of the ridge.
Looking tow
ard the valley, he saw a row of servants standing at the edge of the camp. As he watched, a figure walked out of the darkness. A Hanian soldier, covered in blood. Two servants stepped forward, wrapped a blanket around the man and guided him to a fire.
As a pair of Dunwayan warriors appeared, Danjin realized what was happening. These were the survivors of the battle who had been healed by priests and Dreamweavers.
I have to see this.
Walking past the waiting servants, Danjin started up the slope. The sky brightened slowly. By the time he neared the top of the ridge, he was able to see men and women coming back to camp. Some walked, some limped. Some were supported by servants. A few were being carried.
At the top of the ridge stood a familiar figure. He felt a stab of guilt as he saw her. She turned to regard him, then beckoned.
“Good morning, Danjin Spear,” Auraya said quietly.
“Auraya,” he replied. “I must apologize.”
“If you feel you must, then do so. But you are not to blame. They would have discovered it anyway. I did intend to tell them, and you, eventually.”
He looked down at the ground. “You must know I think you could have made a better choice.”
“Yes.”
“Good choice or not, you must be…disappointed at the result.”
She smiled tiredly. “So tactfully put. Yes, I was disappointed. It is in the past now. I have more important things to do.”
He smiled. “Indeed you have.”
Her attention shifted to the valley. Following her gaze, he saw movement among the fallen. Dreamweavers and priests were at work.
“The change I’ve long considered starting has begun by itself,” she murmured.
“Change?”
She shook her head. “The healer priests and priestesses, instead of ignoring or scorning Dreamweaver healing, are paying attention. They will learn much today.”
Danjin stared at her. Priests learning from Dreamweavers? Was this what she had been aiming for all along? As the implication of this dawned on him he felt dazzled by her brilliance. If the priests could offer the same services as Dreamweavers there would be no more need for Dreamweavers.
Priestess of the White Page 57
