Priestess of the White

“I have memories of this place, but they are old.”

Arleej’s eyebrows rose fractionally.

“Then welcome back, Dreamweaver,” Meeran said. “I look forward to hearing how you came to be in this unique and promising position of Dreamweaver adviser to the White. Now,” he turned and clapped his hands, “we shall offer you refreshments.”

The boat had pulled away from the ship, the rowers’ backs flexing as the oars cut through the water. Meeran ushered the visitors to seats and made polite conversation while servants brought glasses of a warm spiced drink called ahm.

A high wall ran along the entire length of the city. On top of it was a long line of people, those in front sitting with their feet dangling over the edge. As the welcoming craft drew closer the calls of these people grew audible. Auraya and Mairae waved, rousing a cheer from the crowd.

The craft did not dock in front of this gathering, but moved on. Leiard saw armed guards keeping the people from straying beyond a certain section of the dock. After this only a line of priests and priestesses waited and it was toward these people the ship moved.

Solid wooden walkways had been built all along the dock wall. As the boat’s hull settled against one, the rowers drew up their oars. Some secured the boat to the dock, while others set down a carved and painted bridge for the visitors to cross.

Meeran led them off the welcoming craft and up a stairway. At the top of the wall, the priests and priestesses stared at Mairae and Auraya, their awe and excitement strong enough for Leiard to sense it without effort. Two high priests stepped forward to be introduced by Haleed. Looking beyond them, Leiard realized he stood within Arbeem’s Temple. The building was a humbler style than those in Jarime and was built in the same fashion as most of the city structures - single-story and plain.

Hearing his name spoken, Leiard brought his attention back to the introductions. The high priests regarded him with suppressed curiosity and doubt. When all had been introduced, Arleej announced that she must depart.

“I must return to the Dreamweaver House. We are performing the spring link tonight,” she explained. She turned to Leiard. “Would you like to attend, Dreamweaver Leiard?”

His pulse quickened. A link, and a chance to consult another Dreamweaver about his strange memories. “I would be honored,” he replied slowly. “I may be needed here, however.”

“Not tonight, Leiard,” Auraya said. She met his eyes levelly, and gave an almost imperceptible nod. Meet your people, her expression seemed to say. Let them see that you can be trusted. “But we will wish to consult with you tomorrow morning,” she added.

“Then I will attend,” he announced. “And return tonight.”

Arleej nodded. “I look forward to meeting you all again tomorrow,” she said, nodding politely. The others murmured replies. As she turned away, a priest stepped forward and offered to guide them through the Temple.

The Dreamweaver elder was silent as they followed the priest. After a short journey they stepped out of the building into a courtyard. A covered four-wheeled tarn and driver waited nearby.

“The high priest was going to send us out of the main gates,” she said, “but I insisted we leave this way. A crowd was bound to gather out the front, which would have made our exit difficult.”

Leiard nodded. Was she implying that the crowd was likely to be dangerous, or that it would simply block the way? While Somrey was the nation most tolerant and supportive of Dreamweavers, there were always small groups with views contrary to the majority in any country.

The tarn was simple and undecorated, and the driver a hired man. Leiard settled next to Arleej on the seat. The Dreamweaver elder told the driver their destination, and soon they were travelling along the narrow, crowded roads of the city.

As the tarn neared the Dreamweaver House, Arleej considered her companion. He was not what she had expected, but then her expectations hadn’t been specific. Just someone less like a Dreamweaver and more like a Circlian.

Leiard was, if anything, more Dreamweaver-like than she. The way he answered her questions reminded her strongly of her teacher. Keefler had not known his year of birth, and had lived for most of his life in a remote location. He, too, had been quiet and watchful.

The answers to her questions about his relationship with Auraya of the White had startled her into silence. He had begun teaching the woman as a child in the hope that she would become his student. She had joined the Circlians instead. If Arleej had suffered such a disappointment she doubted she would have been able to face her former student without struggling with resentment. Leiard appeared to have accepted Auraya’s choice and her elevation to the White. He described her, of all things, as a friend.

It all seemed too good to be true. That the gods had chosen someone who had been taught by and sympathized with Dreamweavers was incredible. That they tolerated any thought of their people working with Dreamweavers was even more so. Had they finally come to accept the existence of heathens?

She doubted it. A century of persecution had lessened Dreamweaver numbers, but not eliminated them. The early years of violence after Mirar’s death had encouraged the compassionate to sympathize with Dreamweavers and the rebellious to join the cult. Now, perhaps, the gods sought to woo heathens to them by appearing to be generous and benevolent.

They will fail, she thought. So long as Dreamweavers pass link memories from generation to generation there will be no forgetting the true nature of the gods.

The tarn turned a corner and pulled up in front of a large building. The street was busy, and people moved constantly in and out of the building. Leiard looked up at the symbols carved into the facade.

“The only Dreamweaver House still standing in Northem Ithania,” Arleej said. “Come inside.”

He followed her into a generous hall. Three elderly Dreamweavers stepped forward to greet Arieej, speaking Somreyan. When she introduced him as the Dreamweaver adviser to the White, their expressions became wary.

Leiard greeted them in Somreyan. Arieej stared at him in surprise. “Your grasp of our language is impressive,” she said.

He shrugged. “I know many languages.”

“The spring link is about to begin,” a voice called.

Arieej glanced at Leiard and noted a glint of intensity in his gaze. He was looking forward to this, she decided. She started toward the corridor. Leiard followed and the three elderly Dreamweavers came after, uncharacteristically silent, Arieej thought. No doubt it has occurred to them that he will join us, and they’re deciding if that is for good or ill. It is a gamble. He may learn much about us, but they must realize that we may also learn of his, and the White’s, intentions in regard to the alliance.

Had Auraya realized this when she had allowed him to leave her side for the evening?

The corridor ended at a large wooden door. Arieej pushed it open and stepped out into a round, sunken garden. The air was cool and moist. Several Dreamweavers were already present, forming a broken ring. Leiard glanced around, a look of mild puzzlement on his face. As if he recognized the place.

Arieej joined the circle, stepping aside to allow room for Leiard. The elderly Dreamweavers from the hall took their places. Arieej waited until all was quiet, then a little longer to allow the stillness of the place to calm her thoughts before she spoke the words of the ritual.

“We gather tonight in peace and in pursuit of understanding. Our minds will be linked. Our memories shall flow between us. Let none seek or spy, or impose a will upon another. Instead, we shall become one mind.”

She lifted her arms to either side and took hold of the hands of her neighbors. Two minds touched her senses, then dozens more as all of the Dreamweavers linked hands and minds. There was a shared feeling of elation, then a brief pause.

Images and impressions quickly overwhelmed all sense of the physical world. Memories of childhood mingled with those of recent events. Images of well-known faces followed those of strangers. Snatches of remembered conversations echoed in the thoughts of all. She didn’t move to guide them; she let the mingled thoughts move where they would.

Slowly the inevitable happened. All were curious about the newcomer. As some wondered who he was,