Priestess of the White

back to you.”

Emerahl took the bowl and towel. As Rozea left she began to wash her face. I have to find a way to avoid this - and quickly. She looked down at the box and pushed off the lid with a toe. If she was less than presentable, Rozea might let her remain unseen. The reason would have to be convincing, but then Emerahl had seen enough sick people in her long life to know how to pretend to be unwell, and healing powers could be used for other purpose’s.

Picking up the water bowl, she closed her eyes and began to concentrate on her stomach.

When the door flap opened again, Emerahl was lying across the seat, this time with her head by the door. As bright light streamed in, she cringed away and buried her head in her arms. The servant stared at her, then at the contents of the bowl, and hurried away. A moment later Rozea appeared.

“What’s this?” she asked, her voice strained.

Emerahl shifted her head slightly so Rozea could see the paint-darkened skin under her eyes. “I tried,” she said weakly. “I thought I could pretend... I’m sorry.”

Rozea called back the servant and had the girl take the bowl away. She climbed inside the tarn.

“What’s... what’s wrong with you?”

Emerahl swallowed and rubbed her stomach. “Bad food, I think. When I sat up before... Urgh. I feel sick.”

“You look a sight.” Rozea scowled in frustration. “I can’t have you scaring customers off, now can I?” She drummed her fingers on her sleeve. “That’s fine. You’re my favorite, not to be seen by just any common soldier. Only by those who can afford to pay for a glimpse of rare beauty.”

Emerahl made a small noise of resignation. The madam smiled, then patted her on the shoulder. “Get some rest. These things don’t last long. I’m sure you’ll be well by tonight.”

When she had left, Emerahl raised her head and lifted the door flap a little. She could see nothing, but the sound of marching was louder now. The faint giggle of the other whores close by made her smile. This would be exciting for them. Then a male voice - one of the guards - called out, “Here they come!”

A rider came into view and her heart all but stopped.

Juran.

At first glance he looked no different to the man she had seen a hundred years before. She looked closer and realized this was not true. The years showed in his eyes - in the hard, determined expression on his face. He still looked handsome and confident, but time had changed the man. She could not say exactly how, and did not care to find out.

As he moved out of sight, two more riders came into view. A woman and a man, both good-looking. They wore the same undecorated white robes. Two more of the White. The woman also wore a hard expression. She looked about forty. The man beside her, in contrast, appeared to be much younger. He had a disturbingly intense gaze. As his attention fell on the brothel’s caravan, he frowned with disapproval, then lifted his chin and looked away.

A tarn followed. Within this sat two young women. Again, both wore white and both were attractive. The blonde’s expression was more open than the other. When she saw the caravan her lips twitched into a faint, wry smile that made her look older and wiser than her physical appearance suggested.

Immortals, Emerahl thought. You can tell, once you’ve met a few. I wonder if I’m so easy to read.

The other woman wore her hair unbound. She had large eyes and a triangular face. She stared at the caravan, then quickly looked away. Not out of disdain, Emerahl saw. The woman looked pained.

The pair passed out of sight. Another tarn followed. It was highly decorated and surrounded by elaborately uniformed soldiers. Emerahl recognized the current Toren king’s colors and symbols. Several more fancy tarns followed. Genrian. Somreyan. Hanian. Then the priests and priestesses began to file past. She let the door flap fall and rolled onto her back, heart pounding.

So those are the ones they call the White, she thought. The ones the gods chose to do their dirty work among mortals.

She listened to the sound of the army passing and the calls of the girls. It was disturbing knowing so many of the gods’ followers were filing past her, separated only by the tarn cover. I should not have stayed with the brothel after the ambush, she decided. I should have taken my money and left.

She would have felt bad about leaving the girls unprotected, however; she could not have known that they would be safe. And if I’d left, I would never have been in this unique position to see the Gods’ Chosen without being seen myself. She smiled at the thought. I do believe I’m gaining an adventurous spirit, she mused. What next?

She sighed. The caravan had caught up with the army, though in an unexpected way. Rozea could find herself new guards now. There was no reason for Emerahl to stay. I can leave... or can I?

The caravan would probably follow at the rear of the army and camp beside it tonight. She faced the same danger she had before - that the news Rozea’s favorite had run away would inspire an entire army to search for her.

Yet there was a new danger if she stayed. Rozea might mention her favorite’s amazing powers of healing to the wrong person. Emerahl might find herself facing curious priestly visitors.

She cursed.

The door flap opened. She looked up to see Rozea regarding her. The woman moved to the opposite seat, her expression serious.

“It seems the enemy has found another way through the mountains. The Circlians are rushing to stop them.”

“Will we go too?” Emerahl asked, keeping her voice weak.

“Yes, at a distance. We don’t know if the Pentadrians intend to ambush the army. I don’t want to end up in the middle of a battle.”

“No.”

“You rest now,” Rozea said soothingly. She lifted the door flap, revealing lines of ordinary soldiers, to Emerahl’s relief. “I doubt we’ll have customers tonight. It sounds as if the army will march all night. We’ll catch up with them tomorrow - ah, there’s Captain Spirano.”

She leapt up and climbed out. Emerahl turned onto her back and listened to the sound of marching. It went on and on. By the time it had stopped she was sure hours had passed.

The girls fell silent, probably taking the opportunity to sleep without the constant rocking of the tarn. Emerahl heard the guards challenge Rozea to a game of counters. She listened for a while, gathering her courage, then sat up and used the damp towel to clean her face.

As she stepped out of the tarn, Rozea looked up.

“You look better. How do you feel?”

“Much better,” Emerahl replied. She moved over to the table and looked down at the game. “Counters. You would not believe how old this game is.”

The guard playing Rozea moved a piece. Emerahl chuckled. “Bad move.”

The man gave her a hurt look. It was the same guard who had “rescued” her from the deserter she had thrown out of her tarn during the ambush.

“What would you have done?” Rozea asked.

Emerahl looked at the guard. “It is his game.”

“Go ahead,” he said. “Win it for me, and you can have half the takings.”

She laughed. “Rozea won’t let me keep it.”

“Of course I will,” the madam said, smiling. She moved the man’s piece back to its former position.

Emerahl met the woman’s eyes, then looked down at the board. She drew a little magic and sent it out. A black counter slid across the board and flipped on top of another.

The two guards jumped, then grinned at her. “Clever trick, that,” the friendly one said.

“Yes.” Rozea was staring at the board. “Very clever.”

“Yield?” Emerahl asked.