Priestess of the White

He looked at her oddly. “Twenty, if they start young.”

She nodded. So he was right: he was about forty. For some reason that disappointed her. Maybe because the older he was, the less time she would know him for. He would only grow older while she stayed the same physical age. It gave her an uncomfortable feeling that time was running out. A few more decades and his soul would be gone forever.

“Have Dreamweavers ever served the gods?” she found herself asking.

“No.”

“Do you think they ever would in the future?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because we don’t want to.”

She looked at him sidelong. “Because they had Mirar killed?”

“Partly.”

“And the other part is?”

“Because being powerful does not give someone the right to tell others how to think or live, or who to kill.”

“Not even if that someone is older and wiser than you? Like a god?”

“No.” He looked away. “People should have a choice whether they worship the gods or not.”

“They do.”

“Without punishment or penalty?”

“So you expect them to take your soul whether you worship them or not?” she asked in return.

“No. I expect my people to be free from persecution.”

“That is in the past.”

“Is it? Then why do Dreamweavers still fear to walk the streets of Jarime? Why are they forbidden to practice their skills in order to help people?”

Auraya sighed. “Because of what happened a century ago. And I don’t mean Mirar’s death.”

He said nothing to that. She was both relieved and disappointed. While she did not want to argue with him, she did want to hear his view on the events in the past that had led to the Dreamweavers’ situation now.

According to records she had read, Mirar had been both admirable in his work and self-indulgent in his habits. He had taught his people everything about medicines and care for the sick or wounded. His Gift of healing had been unique and he’d been generous at applying it.

But he’d had a reputation for indulging in drink, pleasure drugs and seduction that had scandalized many. Dreamweavers, though they did not speak of it, knew that the reputation was well earned. The truth was in link memories of Mirar and those who had known him, passed down through the generations. Auraya could see this knowledge in their minds. She had seen it in Leiard’s.

Still, it was not Mirar’s character flaws that had convinced the gods that he must be killed. He had worked openly against them, trying to prevent the formation of the White. He had seeded doubts, telling the people malicious lies about the fate of their souls in the gods’ hands. He had claimed that some of the dead gods had not deserved their fate, while the Circle were guilty of terrible acts of cruelty. And the final action that had condemned him had been to send the people of Ithania powerful dreams in an attempt to turn them away from the gods.

Instead, the people had begged the gods to free them from his manipulations.

He brought about his own death, she thought.

Yet what followed Mirar’s death had been terrible. The gods had never decreed that ordinary Dreamweavers should be killed, but there had been many murders of Dreamweavers after Mirar’s death, carried out by overly enthusiastic Circlian followers. These fanatics had been punished, but it took a long time to discourage others from emulating them.

Most Circlians knew that no priest had ever matched a fully trained Dreamweaver in medical skills or knowledge. Now that Auraya understood the purpose and benefits of a mind link, she had realized that this was how the Dreamweavers shared and passed on so much knowledge. As far as she knew, no priest had ever attempted anything like a mind link. Except for telepathy, which did not involve opening one’s mind to another, Circlians felt an aversion to having their minds messed with. Invading another’s mind was a crime - a law which had been instated because of Mirar’s actions.

Perhaps it’s time for us to get over our squeamishness, Auraya mused. If the Circlian priests learned to do what Dreamweavers could, they, too, could increase their knowledge of healing. She felt a chill run over her skin. If they matched, even surpassed, the Dreamweavers, one of the most powerful attractions for newcomers to the heathen cult would be lost. The Dreamweaver cult might fade out of existence in a few generations. Or in one, if I or other White pass on the knowledge we read from their minds.

She shivered. No. That would make us guilty of the crime people have always suspected Dreamweavers of: invading the privacy of another’s mind and using the information to harm others.

Yet it could be done without any linking of minds. If priests could be persuaded to work alongside Dreamweavers they were sure to pick up new skills and knowledge. It would be slow, but it would encourage tolerance and acceptance in the meantime.

Do I really want to be the cause of the Dreamweavers’ demise?

No. But I can’t continue to let people turn away from the gods and sacrifice their souls. Not when it isn’t necessary. People believe that the Dreamweavers’ healing knowledge will be lost unless some make that sacrifice. But if they could learn the same things by becoming priests and priestesses would they still become heathens?

Today, in this garden, with Leiard walking beside her, she had stumbled upon a terrible dilemma. One day she was going to have to choose between keeping his friendship and saving souls.

But not right now. Danjin had appeared on the path before them. He grinned as he saw her, and she knew without reading his mind what his news would be. She did not feel triumph, however, only a wry relief.

“They’ve done it!” he called. “They’ve signed the alliance!”

Emerahl looked over her shoulder. Her little boat of silvery wood glowed in the moonlight. Casting her eye over the mooring rope, she nodded to herself, then drew her shawl over her head and made her way along the dock.

She had been travelling for weeks now, sailing up the coast of Toren. Every few days she had moored at small coastal villages to sell cures in exchange for food, clean water and items such as sailcloth, a waterproof sea tawl and fishing line. The people she traded with treated her with friendly respect, though it was clear they thought it peculiar that an old woman might travel this way.

The villages had grown steadily larger and more frequent until it seemed every bay had sprouted a pier or five. This afternoon she had turned into a deeper bay where large ships slowly swayed at anchor. Buildings covered all the land, and the coast was a labyrinth of wooden docks. She had arrived at the city of Porin, capital of Toren.

A length of dried starlight weed had bought a mooring from the corrupt dockmaster. One of the village women had stolen it from her husband to exchange for a cure for a feverish child several months earlier. Emerahl had been saving it for herself and was not pleased to be losing it. The hallucinatory qualities, coupled with euphoria, made it one of her favorite pleasure drugs.

So she was not in a pleasant mood as she strode into the city’s market district. In any large city there was a place where trade never stopped and shops never closed. People, when desperate, sought out cures at any time of the night.

She did not intend to trade with the customers in the market, however. The right to trade was always a jealously guarded commodity in cities. If she had wanted to sell her wares she would have had to make an arrangement with a stallholder to work outside his or her shop. Part of her profit would go toward paying for the privilege of plying her trade. She didn’t have time for that.

Instead, she had a collection of items to sell to cure shops. Some she had already possessed, some she had gathered on the way. There were sacs of venom from yeryer fish to thin the blood, spines of the prickle mat which