Priestess of the White

Fiamo forced himself to look at his remaining crew, huddled together, ringed by vorns. Some, he heard, were murmuring prayers to the gods.

“You heard him, boys. Back to the oars.”

His voice shook, but held enough command to send the crew edging around the vorns to their former places.

“Pull up oars and keep them up,” the sorcerer ordered.

As the crew obeyed, the boat began to move away from the pier. The gangplank slid into the water like a bad omen. Fiamo stared in amazement as his boat picked up speed, cutting through the water despite the idle rowers and lack of wind.

Magic, he thought. He turned to find the stranger looking back to the shore. Following the man’s gaze, Fiamo saw a distant figure riding down the road to the village. A white figure on a galloping white mount.

Could it be... ?

The newcomer pulled up at the end of the pier and leapt to the ground. The boat shuddered to a stop, knocking Fiamo and many of the vorns off their feet. Fiamo felt his heart lift as the craft began to move backward. He gazed at the white figure.

It is! It’s one of the White. We’re saved!

The stranger muttered something and the force pulling them backward lost its hold. Released, the boat drifted to a halt.

“Row,” the stranger growled. “Now.”

The men hesitated, glancing doubtfully at Fiamo.

Vorns growled.

Men grabbed oars and began to row. Fiamo climbed to his feet again. Slowly the boat moved away from the coastline. When the distant figure was a mere speck of white, the black sorcerer chuckled quietly. He turned his back on the coast and swept his gaze over the boat and its crew. When he met Fiamo’s eyes he smiled in a way that turned the captain’s blood to ice.

“Captain, do you have more oars?”

Fiamo looked around. Harro and Old Marro stood empty-handed. The boy whimpered as two of the vorns approached him.

“No,” Fiamo admitted. “But we—”

At some unspoken signal, the animals leapt up and seized the pair’s throats. As blood gushed forth, Fiamo felt all strength drain from his legs and he sank to the deck. There were no screams, but he could hear arms and legs flailing.

“Keep rowing,” the sorcerer barked. Fiamo heard him moving along the deck toward him. The sounds of the animals feasting was all too audible in the windless silence.

Old Marro. My neighbor’s boy. They’re dead. Dead.

The sorcerer loomed over him.

“Why?” Fiamo heard himself croak.

The man looked away. “They hungry.”

Then a rustle of cloth drew Fiamo’s eyes upward. The sails were billowing with air. The afternoon wind had arrived.

Where it would take them today, he did not like to guess.

The tower was taller than any she had seen. It was so high that clouds tore themselves upon it as they passed...

No. Not again.

Emerahl wrenched herself out of the dream and opened her eyes. It had come to her nearly every night for the last month. Each time it was the same: the tower fell on her and she slowly suffocated under the rubble. If she let it run to its end she woke up feeling shaken and frightened, so she had started waking herself up as soon as it began.

After all, it’s going to wake me up anyway. I may as well do so on my terms.

Sighing, she rose and poured some water into a kettle and started a fire. The flames cast eerie shadows on the walls of the lighthouse - the most menacing being that of herself with hunched shoulders and mussed hair.

Old witch woman, she thought at the shadow. No wonder the villagers fear you.

She hadn’t seen any of them for several days. Occasionally she wondered if “little Rinnie” was still evading the clutches of her father and his cronies. Mostly she enjoyed the peace.

Then why these dreams? she asked herself. Taking a few dried leaves from ajar, she sprinkled them into a cup. The kettle whispered as the water grew hot. She linked her fingers together and considered the dream.

It was always the same. The details never varied. It was more like a memory dream than an ordinary dream, but she had no memories like it. She prided herself on her memory and that she had never suppressed any of her recollections of the past. Good or bad, she accepted them as part of who she was.

This dream had a purposeful feel to it. Something she had not felt for a long time. It reminded her of a... of a dream sent by a Dreamweaver!

This revelation sent a rare thrill of surprise through her. It was possible that a sorcerer had learned the skill, or even a priest, but something told her it was a Dreamweaver’s work.

But why send it? Had it been sent solely to her, or projected out to anyone sensitive enough to receive it? She drummed her fingers on her knees. The contents of a dream could be a clue to its origins. She considered the towers that she knew had existed in the past. None looked similar, but the dream tower could simply represent some other one. Or another building that had collapsed. She felt a chill run down her spine. Mirar had been killed when Juran, the leader of the Circlians, had destroyed Jarime’s Dreamweaver House and buried him in the rubble. It was said his body was crushed so badly he was barely recognizable.

Did this mean someone was dreaming about the death of Mirar? Someone with Dreamweaver skills so powerful that he or she was projecting the dream loud enough for Emerahl, in her remote location, to receive them. It made sense that a Dreamweaver would dream of the death of his or her leader, but why was he or she dreaming of it over and over. And why project it?

The kettle had begun to rattle softly now. Suddenly she was in no mood for a soporific. She wanted to think. Taking the kettle from the fire, she set it aside. As its bubbling subsided she heard the faint sound of voices outside.

She sighed. So they were coming at last. Time to show these upstart villagers why they should respect their elders.

Rising, she moved to the entrance of the lighthouse. Sure enough, a column of men was winding its way up the path to the lighthouse. She smiled sadly and shook her head.

Fools.

Then her amusement fled. At the head of the column was a man dressed entirely in white.

Priest! Turning away, she cursed loudly. No priest of the Circlians was strong enough to best her, but each was a conduit to their gods. And should the gods see her through this priest’s eyes...

She cursed again, then hurried back inside. Grabbing a blanket, she threw the most valuable of her belongings into it. With a scrap of thin rope she bound the blanket around these possessions. Hugging the bundle to her chest, she moved to the far side of the room.

“Sorceress!”

The voice was the village head’s. Emerahl froze, then forced herself to move. Drawing magic, she swept away the dirt covering a section of the floor. A large rectangle of stone appeared.

“Come out, sorceress, or we’ll come in and drag you out!”

Quickly! Drawing more magic, she sent dirt flying. A stairway appeared. She forced thick dirt out of the tunnel beyond. Stone appeared, then a cavity. Finally, with a gasp of relief, she cleared the mouth of a tunnel.