Priestess of the White

:You are no ordinary human, Auraya. We do not choose ordinary humans. We choose those with extraordinary talents, and you have certainly proved to have more of those than we initially detected.

The goddess’s tone was approving, yet Auraya sensed a note of irony. She did not have time to wonder at Huan’s meaning as the goddess continued speaking.

:We are satisfied with your success in unifying Northern Ithania so far. I am particularly pleased to see the Siyee united with the White. You will find they are the easier of my two races to befriend, however. Your flying skills will not impress the Elai. They will be a greater challenge for you.

:How can I impress them?

:That is for you to discover, Auraya. The choice must be their own, so we will not interfere either by giving you instructions, or giving the Elai direction.

:I understand.

Huan’s lips twisted in a wry smile.

:I doubt it. You are young and have much to learn - particularly in matters of the heart. I do not disapprove of you enjoying the Dreamweaver, Auraya. It is up to your fellow White to decide what is acceptable or unacceptable to the people. However, heed this warning. Only pain can come of this sort of love. Be prepared for it. Your people need you to be strong. Falter, and they may suffer.

Auraya felt her face warming as surprise was followed by embarrassment.

:I will, was all she could think to say.

Huan nodded. The figure dissolved into a column of light, then shrank, faded and vanished.

Kimyala, high priest of the followers of Gareilem, donned his many-layered octavestim slowly, following the ancient ritual of his forebears with great care. As he arranged and tied each garment he murmured prayers to his god. It was important to remember every stage of the ritual, and every ritual of the day.

He had asked his master, the former high priest, why this was so. The great Shamila had replied simply that it was important to remember.

Kimyala had not comprehended at the time. He suspected he hadn’t wanted to, because of his youthful impatience with the endless and complicated rituals. Now he understood better. It was important to remember, because there were too few who did.

Too few believed. The Circlians thought Gareilem dead and scorned his followers. The Pentadrians believed this too and pitied Kimyala. The Dreamweavers agreed with both, but at least they treated him with respect.

Kimyala was sure of one thing: gods cannot die. This was one of the ancient secrets of the followers of Gareilem. Let the others doubt, but he and his people knew the truth. The gods were beings of magic and wisdom. They existed as long as magic existed, so Gareilem must still exist somewhere, in some form. Perhaps, one day, he would return. His silence may even be a test of their faith. He was letting his followers dwindle until only the most loyal remained.

The dressing ritual over, Kimyala left his room and climbed to the roof of the old temple. Gareilem was the god of rock, sand and earth. His temples had always been built high on the sides of mountains. Here, near the southern coast of Sennon, there were only a few hills. The temple was built on a small rocky outcrop in the midst of a sea of dunes, but the lack of vegetation taller than a saltbush meant it had an uninterrupted view of the surrounding area.

Reaching the roof of the temple, Kimyala let his gaze move across the land. The sun hung just above the horizon, calling for his attention. The ritual chant for the end of the day crowded his thoughts, but it was not yet time. There wasn’t much to see to the west. Just the swell of a few more hills along the coast. The Gulf of Sorrow stretched, blue-gray, before him. A little to the left he could see the Isthmus of Grya reaching toward the southern continent. At its base was the dark smudge that was the city of Diamyane.

The city was close enough that he could see the scribble of roads and the sprawling low houses between them. On a clear day he could make out the city’s denizens without even the use of a lens. Today a slight but persistent wind had raised enough dust to soften the details of the city. There was nothing interesting to see. Except... as he looked beyond he noticed something unusual.

“Jedire!” he bellowed. “Bring my lens! Quickly!”

He heard hurried footsteps as his acolyte, studying in the room below, responded. Glancing at the sun, Kimyala judged he still had several minutes before it touched the horizon. Soon all light would be gone and the land would disappear in darkness.

The sound of sandals slapping against the stone stairs heralded the arrival of Jedire. The boy reached the top and handed Kimyala the lens. The high priest held the tube up to his eye.

He searched for the city and from there found the Isthmus. The dark smudge he had seen took form. Columns of figures marched toward Sennon, some holding banners. In the center of each length of black cloth was a white five-pointed star.

“Pentadrians,” he said in disgust, handing the lens back to his acolyte.

The boy raised the tube to his eye.

“What are they doing?”

“Don’t know. A pilgrimage, maybe. ”

“They’re carrying weapons,” the boy said in a hushed voice. “They’re going to war. ”

Kimyala snatched the lens from the boy and turned to face the city. Raising the tube to his eye, he sought the Pentadrians again and examined the line of marchers closely. Sure enough, some were wearing armor. Heavily laden carts trundled in their midst. As he watched, the head of the black column reached the city.

He muttered a curse. He had already lost two boys to the Pentadrians. It was not easy keeping them when the Pentadrians were always about, flaunting their riches and powers. If that wasn’t enough to lure young men away, there were always the rumors about their fertility rites. It was said that they held orgies in which all participants were masked, and that sometimes their gods joined in.

“It’s an army, isn’t it?” Jedire asked. “Have they come to take over Sennon?”

Kimyala shook his head. “I don’t know. Nobody is trying to stop them. ”

“If they aren’t here to invade us, who are they going to invade?”

He turned to regard Jedire. The boy’s eyes were bright with excitement.

“Don’t get any foolish ideas about running off to join Ewarli and Gilare,” Kimyala warned him. “Boys die in battles. They die horribly, in terrible pain. Now take this lens below quickly. I have a ritual to perform. ”

As the boy hurried away, Kimyala turned his attention to the sun. The fiery disk was about to touch the horizon. It was time to ignore the ominous presence of the army below, and begin the ritual.

27

The window was open. Danjin cursed the servants. How had they let this happen? Mischief might get out - could be out there clinging to the wall right now, oblivious to the risk of falling.

He ought to call the servants and get someone else to deal with it, but he found he could not stop himself walking toward the opening. Cold air surrounded him. He moved to the edge. Felt his toes curl over the sill, chilled by the wind.

I am on the brink, he thought. Then he frowned. Why aren’t I wearing shoes?

He looked beyond his feet at the ground far, far below, and everything began to spin.

Suddenly he was standing at the base of the White Tower, looking up. He ought to have felt better now that he was outside on good, firm ground, but this only terrified him more. The tower loomed over him, leaned over him. Too late, he saw the cracks form.

He saw it crumple, saw the fragments fall toward him. He could not move. Rubble pelted down upon him, beat him to the ground, covered him, smothered him. He fought the terror. Told himself to lie still...

“Danjin.”