treated with suspicion, and healer sorceresses with outright hostility. The first priest she had met had been unfriendly, which hadn’t helped to ease her fear of being found by the gods. To her relief he had simply ordered her out of his village.
For days afterward she had expected to find herself being hunted again, but nobody had followed her.
However, in most places she was welcome. Village priests and priestesses did not usually have strong Gifts or more than a basic knowledge of healing. The best of their healers worked in cities, and Dreamweavers were rare, so there was a great demand for her services. Having the appearance of a thirty- to forty-year-old woman also helped - nobody would have believed she had much healing knowledge if she’d remained a beautiful young woman.
The road ahead wove in and out of sight behind hills and forests. She traced it to the sea’s edge. Buildings clustered around the middle of a bay like stones in the bottom of a bucket. According to the owners of journey houses, helpful drinking companions, and a copy of a rough map given to her by a trader, this port was called Dufin.
It had grown and prospered in the last forty years due to its position near the Si border. Or rather, due to the Toren people’s inclination to ignore the border and settle wherever they saw good fertile soil or mineral deposits. The “inlanders” she had spoken to had told her gleefully how the White had forced the Toren king to order his people out of Si. It would be interesting to see what effect - if any - these orders had made on the people of Dufin.
Hearing a sound behind her, she turned to regard the road. A single arem was pulling a small tarn up the hill toward her. She stood up. Though the driver was too far away for her to read his expression, she was sure he was staring up at her. She could sense his curiosity.
She considered how far away he was, the lateness of the hour and the distance between her and Dufin. Sitting down, she waited for the tarn to reach her.
It took several minutes. Long before then, when the driver was close enough to see, she had exchanged a smile and a wave. As the arem hauled the tarn up to the rise, Emerahl stood up and greeted the man.
He was in his forties, she judged. His weathered face was pleasant - plenty of smile wrinkles. He pulled the arem to a stop.
“Are you going to Dufin?” she asked.
“I am,” he replied.
“Have you room for a tired traveller?”
“I always make room for fine young women in need of transportation,” he said jovially.
She cast about, as if looking for another. “Where is this woman you speak of? And how selfish of you to leave a tired old woman by the side of the road in favor of a more youthful companion.”
He laughed, then gestured to the tarn. “It is no grand covered platten, but if you don’t mind the smell you could sit on the furs.”
She smiled in gratitude, then climbed on board. As soon as she had settled onto the furs he urged the arem into a walk again. There was a distinctly fishy smell underlying the animal odor of the furs.
“I am Limma Curer,” she told him. “A healer.”
He glanced back at her, his eyebrows rising. “And a sorceress, I guess. No ordinary woman travels these parts alone.”
“A fighting woman might.” She grinned and shook her head. “But I am no warrior. Who might you be, then?”
“Marin Hookmaker. Fisherman.”
“Ah,” she said. “I thought I could smell fish. Let me guess: you deliver fish to inlanders and bring back furs and...” she looked at the rest of the tarn’s contents “... vegetables, drink, wood, pottery and - ah - a pair of girri for dinner.”
Marin nodded. “That’s right. Makes a nice change for me and the inland folk.”
“I used to live by the sea,” she told him. “Caught my own dinner plenty of times.”
“Where’d you live?”
“A remote place. Didn’t have a name. I hated it. Too far from anything. I left and travelled to many places and learned my trade. But I always like to be near the sea.”
“What brings you to Dufin?”
“Curiosity,” she replied. “Work.” She paused. Should she begin her search for The Gull now? “I’ve heard a story. An old story. I want to discover if it is true.”
“Oh? What story is that?”
“It’s a story about a boy. A boy who never ages. Who knows everything there is to know about the sea.”
“Ah,” Marin said, the sound more like a sigh than a word. “That
“Do you know it?”
He shrugged. “There are many, many stories about The Gull. Stories of him saving men from drowning. Stories of him drowning men himself. He is like the sea itself: both kind and cruel.”
“Do you believe he exists?”
“No, but I know people who do. They claim to have seen him.”
“Tall tales? Stories of old folk grown fanciful in their retelling?”
“Probably.” Marin frowned. “I’ve never known Old Grim to tell something any way but as it was, and he says he crewed with The Gull as a boy.”
“I’d like to meet Old Grim.”
“I can arrange that. You might not like him, though.” Marin looked back at her and grimaced. “He has a foul mouth.”
She chuckled. “I can handle that. I’ve heard some words come out of the mouths of women in childbirth that would burn the ears of most folk.”
He nodded. “So have I. My wife’s a quiet one most of the time, but when she’s in a fury...” He shuddered. “Then you know she’s a fisherman’s daughter.”
They had reached the bottom of the hill now. Marin was silent for a while, then he gave her another fleeting glance.
“So you want to discover if The Gull exists. What would it take for you to believe in him?”
“I don’t know. To meet him, perhaps.”
He laughed. “That would prove it.”
“Do you think it’s likely I’ll meet him?”
“No. What would you do if you did?”
“Ask him about cures. There are many cures that come from the sea.”
“Of course.”
“I might never find him, but I’ve got plenty of time. So long as there are people there are always people who need cures. I’ll work my way along the coast, perhaps buy passage on ships.”
“Most likely you’ll meet some lucky man, have lots of pretty children and forget all about The Gull.”
She grimaced. “Hmph! I’ve had enough of foolish romance.”
He chuckled. “Have you, then?”
“Yes,” she said firmly. As the tarn turned between two smaller hills and the buildings of Dufin came into sight, Emerahl shifted into a more comfortable position.
“So tell me some of these stories about The Gull,” she prompted.
Marin, as she’d guessed, was happy to oblige.
Auraya leaned against the window frame and looked down. The Temple grounds were striped and patched with the long shadows cast by the late afternoon sun. Where the rays touched the gardens they set bright drifts of autumn leaves glowing. Juran, as First of the White, occupied the rooms of the Tower’s topmost floor. The view was little different to her own, the extra height only giving a slightly greater vista.
“Try this,” Juran murmured.
She turned away and accepted a goblet from Juran. Inside was a pale yellow liquid. As she sipped a familiar
