3

   

The Temple did not post guards at its entrance. In principle, all were free to enter. Once inside, however, visitors needed directing to those who could best serve their needs, so all initiates to the priesthood spent some of their time employed as guides.

Initiate Rimo didn’t mind this part of his duties. Most of the time it involved wandering along the paths of the Temple, basking in the sunshine and telling people where to go, which was much easier and more satisfying than lessons on law and healing. Something amusing happened during nearly every shift, and afterward he and his fellow initiates would gather together and compare stories.

After several days of greeting visiting monarchs, nobles and other dignitaries, none of the initiates were particularly impressed by tales of meeting important people anymore. Stories of the strange antics of ordinary visitors hadn’t regained their popularity, either. Rimo knew that only something as extraordinary as meeting Auraya of the White would gain him any admiration, and there was as much chance of that as…

Rimo stopped and stared in disbelief as a tall, bearded man walked through the White Arch. A Dreamweaver? Here? He had never seen one of the heathens in the Temple before. They wouldn’t dare enter the most sacred of Circlian places.

Rimo glanced around, expecting to see someone hurrying after the Dreamweaver. His stomach sank as he realized he was the only guide standing close by. For a moment he considered pretending he hadn’t noticed the heathen, but that might be regarded as being just as bad as inviting the man into the sacred buildings. With a sigh, Rimo forced himself to go after the man.

As he drew near, the Dreamweaver stopped and turned to regard him. I only have to find out what he wants, Rimo told himself. And then tell him to leave. But what if he won’t go? What if he tries to force his way in? Well, there’re plenty of priests about to help if it comes to that.

“May I assist you?” Rimo asked stiffly.

The Dreamweaver’s gaze fixed somewhere past Rimo’s head. Or perhaps inside his head.

“I have a message to deliver.”

The heathen drew a cylinder out from under his robes. Rimo frowned. A message to deliver? That would mean allowing the heathen to continue further into the Temple grounds, perhaps even enter the buildings. He couldn’t let that happen.

“Give it to me,” he demanded. “I will see that it is delivered.”

To Rimo’s relief, the Dreamweaver handed him the scroll. “Thank you,” he said, then turned and walked back toward the gate.

Rimo looked down at the cylinder in his hands. It was a simple wooden message-holder. As he read the recipient’s name inked onto the side he drew in a quick breath of astonishment. He stared at the Dreamweaver. This was just too strange. The recipient was “High Priestess Auraya.” Why was a heathen delivering messages to Auraya of the White?

Perhaps the man had stolen it in order to see the contents. Rimo examined the cylinder carefully, but the seal was whole and there were no signs of tampering. Still, it was too strange. Other priests might ask questions. He considered the retreating man’s back, then made himself stride forward in pursuit.

“Dreamweaver.”

The man stopped and looked back, and his brow creased with a frown.

“How is it that you were charged with the delivery of this message?” Rimo demanded.

The man’s lips thinned. “I wasn’t. I encountered the courier a few days ago, drunk and unconscious beside the road. Since I am acquainted with the recipient, and was headed in this direction, I decided to bring it myself.”

Rimo glanced at the name on the scroll. Acquainted with the recipient? Surely not. Still, it was always better to be cautious.

“Then I will see she gets this immediately,” he said.

Rimo turned away quickly and started toward the White Tower. After several steps he glanced back and saw that, to his relief, the Dreamweaver had passed through the arched entrance of the Temple and was walking toward the west side of the city. He looked at the recipient’s name again and smiled. If he was lucky, he might get to deliver this personally. Now that would be a story to tell.

Feeling excitement growing, he lengthened his stride and hurried toward the entrance of the White Tower.

The Sennon ambassador began another long digression into a story from his land’s history—something his people were in the habit of doing when making a point. Auraya’s expression shifted slightly. To all who had observed this meeting she would have appeared absorbed by the man’s conversation. Danjin was beginning to read her better and saw signs of forced patience. Like most plain-speaking Hanians, she was finding the Sennon’s endlessly embellished conversation tedious.

“We would be honored, indeed pleased beyond rapture, if you were to visit the city of stars. Since the gods chose the great Juran a century ago we have been blessed with only nine opportunities to receive and accommodate the Gods’ Chosen. It would be wonderful, do you not agree, if the newest of the gods’ representatives should be the next to walk the streets of Karienne and climb the dunes of Hemmed?”

That’s all? Danjin suppressed a sigh. The ambassador’s elaborate speech had been leading to nothing more than an invitation to visit his country. Though he is also pointing out that the White rarely visit Sennon. It would be no surprise if the Sennons were feeling a bit neglected.

The trouble was, Sennon was separated from Hania by a mountain range and a desert, and the road to Karienne was a long and difficult one. Dunway was also located across the mountains, but could at least be reached by sea. Sennon’s main port was situated on the opposite end of the continent. In good weather a sea journey could take months. In bad, it could take longer than the overland route. If Sennon did eventually become an ally, the White would have to make that journey more often.

Danjin suspected that the other reason the White were reluctant to invest time in the journey was that a large number of Sennons still worshipped dead gods. The emperors of Sennon, past and present, had always supported the belief that their people should be free to worship whoever and whatever they wanted, and that whether the gods these people worshipped were real or not wasn’t for rulers to decide. They would probably continue to do so as long as the Sennon “religion tax” added to their wealth.

Only one cult objected to the situation as loudly as Circlians. They called themselves the Pentadrians. Like the Circlians, they followed five gods, but that was the only similarity. Their gods did not exist, so they beguiled their followers with tricks and enchantments. It was said the Pentadrians sacrificed slaves to these gods, and indulged in orgiastic fertility rituals. No doubt these acts ensured that their followers did not dare to doubt the existence of their gods, lest he or she find there had been no justification for their depravity.

Auraya glanced at Danjin and he felt his face heat with embarrassment. He was supposed to be paying attention to the ambassador’s continuing ramble in order to provide her with a ready source of insight. I guess I was providing insight—just not the kind she can use right at this moment.

The door to the room opened and Dyara entered. Danjin noted with amusement the way the older woman examined Auraya critically, like a mother looking for faults in her child’s behavior. He resisted a smile. It would take time before Auraya carried herself with the same air of self-assurance that Dyara had. Auraya was in an interesting position, having moved from one of the highest positions a mortal priestess could attain to what was, as far as age and experience went, the lowest position among the immortals.

“A message has arrived from your home, Auraya,” Dyara said. “Do you wish to receive it now?”

Auraya’s eyes brightened. “Yes. Thank you.”

Dyara stepped aside, allowing an initiate of the priesthood to enter and hesitantly present a message cylinder.

Auraya smiled at the young man, then blinked in surprise. As Dyara ushered the messenger from the room Auraya broke the seal and tipped out a slip of paper. Danjin could see that there were few marks on the vellum. He heard a sharply indrawn breath and looked at Auraya closely. She had turned pale.

Auraya glanced at Dyara who frowned and turned to the ambassador. “I trust you have enjoyed your visit to the Temple, Ambassador Shemeli. Might I accompany you on your way out?”

The man hesitated, then bowed slightly. “I would be most honored, Dyara of the White.” He formed a circle with both hands and bowed his head to Auraya. “It was a pleasure speaking to you, Auraya of the White. I hope that we may continue our acquaintance soon.”

She met his eyes and nodded. “As do I.”

As Dyara drew the man out of the room, Danjin studied Auraya closely. The newest White was gazing intently at a vase, but he was sure it was not the subject of her attention. Was that a glitter of tears in her eyes?

Danjin looked away, not wanting to discomfort her by staring. As the silence continued he began to feel uncomfortable. There was something a little unsettling about seeing one of the White tearful, he mused. They were supposed to be strong. In control. But she isn’t exactly an old hand at this, he reminded himself. And I’d prefer that those who guided humans in matters of law and morality still had human feelings rather than none at all.

The door opened and Dyara stepped inside again, her hand lingering on the door handle.

“I’m sorry, Auraya. Spend the rest of the day as you wish. I will come and see you this evening when I am free.”

“Thank you,” Auraya replied softly.

Dyara looked at Danjin then nodded toward the door. He rose and followed her out of the room.

“Bad news?” he asked when the door had closed.

“Her mother has died.” Dyara grimaced. “It is unfortunate timing. Go home, Danjin Spear. Come back tomorrow at the usual time.”

Danjin nodded and made the sign of the circle. Dyara strode away. He looked down the corridor toward the staircase, then back at the door of the room he had just left. A free afternoon. He hadn’t had a moment to himself for several days. He could visit the Grand Market and spend some of the money he was earning on gifts for his wife and daughters. He could do some reading.

A memory of Auraya’s pale face slipped into his mind. She will be grieving, he thought. Is there anyone here to comfort her? A friend? Maybe one of the priests?

All ideas of visiting markets and reading evaporated. He sighed and knocked on the door. After a pause, the door opened. Auraya looked at him questioningly, then smiled wanly as she read his mind.

“I’ll be fine, Danjin.”

“Is there anything I can do? Someone I can fetch?”

She shook her head, then frowned. “Perhaps there is. Not to fetch, but to locate. Find out where the man who delivered the message to the Temple is staying. The initiate, Rimo, should be able to describe him. If he is who I suspect he is, his name is Leiard.”

Danjin nodded. “If he’s still in the city, I’ll find him.”

Not far to his left, three women were standing at a table preparing the night’s meal. They were barely aware of their hands deftly kneading, stirring or slicing as they chatted among themselves, discussing the coming marriage of their employer’s daughter.

Behind, and farther away, a man had reached an almost meditative state of mind as he shaped the clay between his hands into a bowl. Satisfied, he cut it from the wheel with a length of wire and set it down among the others he had made, then reached for some more clay.

To the right, a youth hurried past, tired and dispirited. His parents had fought yet again. As always, it had ended in the dull thud of fists on flesh and whimpers of pain. He considered the foreigners who still filled the market, seemingly oblivious to the existence of pickpockets, and his heart lightened. Easy pickings tonight.

Far to the right, but louder, a mother was arguing with her daughter. The fight ended with a surge of satisfaction and anger as the daughter slammed the door between them.

Leiard drew in a deep breath and let these and other minds fade from his senses. The ache in his body had changed to a more bearable weariness. He was tempted to lie down and sleep, but that would leave him wakeful in the evening, and he had already endured enough restless nights wondering if he had made the right decision in taking the message from the courier.

Someone had to take it, he thought. Why did Fa-Dyer trust that boy to deliver it?

The harvest was probably underway. Few could be spared for the task of delivering a message. The boy might have offered to take it in order to get out of the hard work. Fa-Dyer must not have known of his lazy nature.

Leiard had managed to extract enough from the drink-befuddled boy to work out why Auraya’s father had sent a message rather than ask Priest Avorim to communicate it mentally. The priest was sick. He’d collapsed several days before.

So, with the priest ill, Fa-Dyer had no choice but to send a courier. Leiard had no idea how ill Priest Avorim was. The old man could be dying. If he didn’t find another courier Auraya might not receive the news of her mother’s death.

Ironically, Leiard had only encountered the drunken courier because Ma-Dyer’s death had freed him to leave. Every year he travelled to a town a few days’ walk from Oralyn to buy cures he could not make himself. The boy had given him what remained of the money Fa-Dyer had provided for food and board, but when Leiard reached the town he discovered it was not enough to buy another courier’s services.

Leiard had considered taking the message to the town’s priest, but when he imagined himself explaining how he came by it he could not see any priest believing him. That left him with two choices: take the message back to Fa-Dyer, who did not need an extra source of disappointment and distress right now, or deliver it himself. He only had to hand it over to one of the gatekeepers of the Temple, he’d reasoned.

But there hadn’t been any gatekeepers or guards. Remembering the moment when he had arrived at the Temple entrance, Leiard felt his skin prickle. He had been too preoccupied with the bustle of people around him to notice the great white Tower stretching above the city buildings. Only when he had reached the archway over the Temple entrance did he see it.

Something about it chilled him to the core. A part of him had felt wonder and admiration for the skill that must have gone into its creation. Another part of him shrank away, urging him to turn and leave as quickly as possible.

His determination to deliver the message kept him there. He hadn’t travelled this far only to scurry away. But there had been nobody at the entrance for him to give the message to, and none of the priests and priestesses within looked inclined to approach him. He’d had to pass through the arch in order to gain anyone’s attention. After he had passed the message to a young priest he had left quickly, relieved to be free of it at last.

Jarime had grown and changed since he had last visited, but that was the nature of cities. The dense mix of people was both stimulating and wearying. It had taken several hours of walking before he found a boarding place for Dreamweavers. It was owned by Tanara and Millo Baker, a couple of modest income who had inherited a small apartment block. Their son, Jayim, had chosen to become a Dreamweaver, inspiring them to offer lodging to Dreamweavers who passed through the city. They lived on the first floor and rented the ground floor to shopkeepers.

Tanara had shown him to a room and left him there to rest. Leiard could not resist the temptation to enter a trance in order to skim the thoughts of the urban dwellers around him. They were like people everywhere, immersed in lives that were as varied as the fish in the ocean. Bright and dark. Hard and easy. Generous and selfish. Hopeful. Determined. Resigned. He had also sensed the mind of his hostess in the kitchen below, thinking she must call Leiard to dinner soon. She was also hoping he would help her son.

Taking another deep breath, Leiard opened his eyes. Jayim’s teacher had died last winter and no Dreamweaver had chosen to replace him. Leiard knew he must disappoint them again. He would be returning to the village tomorrow. Even if he had wanted to take on another student, Jayim would have to return with him. The Bakers would probably rather Jayim remained untaught than have him leave them.

If Jayim wanted to come with me, would I take him? Leiard felt the pull of obligation. Dreamweavers were few in number now, and it would be a shame if this youth gave up for lack of teachers. Perhaps when he met the boy he would consider it. He had, after all, been prepared to teach Auraya if she had wanted it.

Standing up, he stretched and moved to a narrow bench where Tanara had placed a large basin of water and some rough towels. He washed himself slowly, dressed in his spare set of tunic and trousers and shrugged into his Dreamweaver vest. Leaving the room, he moved into the communal area at the center of the house and found Tanara sitting on an old cushion, her brow furrowed with concentration. Bread was cooking on a large flat stone suspended on two bricks. There was no fire beneath the stones, so she must be using magic to heat them.

“Dreamweaver Leiard,” she said, the wrinkles deepening around her eyes as she smiled. “We don’t have any servants and I prefer to cook than buy that muck from the shop next door. I’ve only eaten their food twice, and was sick both times. They are prompt with the rent, though, so I shouldn’t complain.” She nodded toward a doorway. “Jayim has returned.”

Leiard turned to see a young man sprawled on an old wooden bench in the next room. His Dreamweaver vest lay on the floor beside him. Sweat stained his tunic.

“Jayim, this is Dreamweaver Leiard,” Tanara called out. “Keep him company while I finish here.”

The young Dreamweaver looked up and, seeing Leiard, blinked in surprise. He straightened on the bench as Leiard moved into the room. “Hello,” he said.

“Greetings,” Leiard replied. No traditional welcome from this one, then. Was it lack of training, or simply disdain for ritual?

Leiard sat in a chair opposite Jayim. He looked at the vest. The boy followed his gaze, then quickly picked it up and draped it over the back of the bench.

“Bit hot today, isn’t it?” he said. “Have you been to the city before?”

“Yes. Long ago,” Leiard replied.

“How long ago?”

Leiard frowned. “I’m not sure exactly.”

The boy shrugged. “Then it must be a long time ago. Has it changed a lot?”

“I noted a few changes, but I cannot judge well as I have seen only part of the city since I arrived this afternoon,” Leiard replied. “It sounds as though eating at the street shops is as perilous as it has always been.”

Jayim chuckled. “Yes, but there are some good ones. Will you be staying long?”

Leiard shook his head. “No, I leave tomorrow.”

The boy did not hide his relief well. “Back to… where was it?”

“Oralyn.”

“Where is that?”

“Near the Dunwayan border, at the base of the mountains.”

Jayim opened his mouth to speak, but froze at the sound of knocking. “Someone’s at the door, Mother.”

“Then answer it.”

“But…” Jayim looked at Leiard. “I’m keeping our guest company.”

Tanara sighed and stood up. She crossed to the main door, out of sight. Leiard listened to the slap of her sandals on the tiled floor. He heard the sound of a door opening, then female voices. Two sets of footsteps returned.

“We have a customer,” Tanara announced as she entered the room. A woman wrapped in a generous swathe of dark cloth entered. The cloth was draped over her head, hiding her face.

“I haven’t come for healing,” the woman said. “I am here to see an old friend.”

The voice sent a shiver up Leiard’s spine, but he was not sure why. He found himself rising to his feet. The woman pulled back the cloth from her head and smiled.

“Greetings, Dreamweaver Leiard.”

Her face had changed. She had lost all the roundness of childhood, revealing an elegant jaw and brow and high cheekbones. Her hair had been dressed into an elaborate style favored by the rich and fashionable. She seemed taller.

But her eyes were the same. Large, expressive and bright with intelligence, they gazed at him searchingly. She must be wondering if I remember her, he thought. I do, but not like this.

Auraya had grown into a strikingly beautiful woman. It would never have been apparent in the village. She would have seemed too fragile and thin. The fashion of the city suited her better.

The fashion of the city? She did not come here to be fashionable, but to become a priestess. At that thought he remembered his hosts. Knowing they had a Circlian priestess in their house might frighten them—especially a high priestess. At least Auraya had the sense to cover her priestess’s clothes. He turned to Tanara.

“Is there a place the lady and I might talk privately?”

Tanara smiled. “Yes. On the roof. It’s nice out there on a summer evening. Follow me.”

The woman led them through the communal room to the staircase opposite the main door. As he emerged onto the roof, Leiard was surprised to find it was covered with potted plants and worn wooden seats. He could see neighboring apartments and other people relaxing in rooftop gardens.

“I’ll get you some cool drinks,” Tanara said, then disappeared downstairs.

Auraya sat down opposite Leiard and sighed. “I should have sent you a message warning that I was coming. Or arranged to meet you somewhere. But as soon as I learned you were here…” She smiled crookedly. “I had to come straightaway.”

He nodded. “You need to talk about your mother with someone who knew her,” he guessed.

Her smile faded. “Yes. How did she… ?”

“Age and sickness.” He spread his hands. “Her illness took a greater toll as she grew older. Eventually it was going to defeat her.”

Auraya nodded. “So that was all? Nothing else?”

He shook his head. “It is easy, after a long time keeping a sickness at bay, to be surprised when it claims a person.”

She grimaced. “Yes—especially when the timing is… unfortunate.” She let out a long sigh. “How is Father?”

“He was well when I left. Grieving, of course, but also accepting.”

“You told the initiate that you found the message in the hands of a drunken courier. Do you know why Priest Avorim has not contacted me?”

“The courier claims he is sick.”

She nodded. “He must be so old now. Poor Avorim. I gave him such a hard time during his lessons. And you.” She looked up and gazed at him, smiling faintly. “It’s strange. I recognize you, but you look different.”

“How so?”

“Younger.”

“Children think all adults are old.”

“Especially when those adults have white hair,” she said. She pulled at the cloth covering her. “It’s a bit hot to be so dressed up,” she continued. “I was worried that if people saw me arrive it would bring your hosts trouble.”

“I’m not sure what it is like for Dreamweavers in the city.”

“But you believe your hosts would be frightened if they knew who I was,” she guessed.

“Probably.”

She frowned. “I don’t want them to fear me. I don’t like it. I wish…” She sighed. “But who am I to want to change the way people are?”

He regarded her closely. “You are in a better position than most.”

She stared at him, then smiled self-consciously. “I guess I am. The question is: Will the gods allow it?”

“You’re not thinking of asking, are you?”

Her eyebrows rose. “Maybe.”

Seeing the bright glint in her eye, Leiard felt an unexpected affection for her. It seemed some of the curious, relentlessly questioning child remained in her. He wondered if she let her peers encounter it, and how well they coped.

I can even imagine her drilling the gods about the nature of the universe, he thought, laughing silently to himself. Then he sobered. Asking questions is easy. Making change is harder.

“When do you plan to leave?” she asked.

“Tomorrow.”

“I see.” She looked away. “I had hoped you might be staying longer. Perhaps a few days. I’d like to talk to you again.”

He considered her request. Just a few days. Footsteps from the staircase hailed the return of Tanara. She appeared carrying a tray bearing pottery goblets and a dish of dried fruit. She lowered the tray and offered it to Auraya. As Auraya reached out to take a goblet Tanara gasped and the tray dropped.

Leiard noticed Auraya’s fingers flex slightly. The tray stopped, the contents of the goblets sloshing, and remained suspended in the air. He looked up at Tanara. The woman was staring at Auraya. He realized that the cloth covering Auraya’s shoulders had slipped and the edge of her circ was showing.

He stood up and placed his hands on Tanara’s shoulders. “You have nothing to fear,” he said soothingly. “Yes, she is a priestess. But she is also an old friend of mine. From the village near my—”

Tanara gripped his hand, her eyes wide. “Not a priestess,” she gasped. “More than a priestess. She’s… she’s…” She stared at Leiard. “You’re a friend of Auraya of the White?”

“I…” Auraya of the what? He looked down at Auraya, who wore a grimace of embarrassment. He looked at the circ. It bore no gold edging of a high priestess. It bore no edging at all.

“When did this happen?” he found himself asking.

She smiled apologetically. “Nine, ten days ago.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was waiting for the right moment.”

Tanara let go of Leiard’s hand. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to spoil the surprise.”

Auraya laughed ruefully. “It doesn’t matter.” She took the tray and put it on the bench beside her. “I should be apologizing for causing you so much distress. I should have arranged to meet Leiard elsewhere.”

Tanara shook her head. “No! You’re welcome here. Any time you wish to visit please don’t hesitate to—”

Auraya’s eyes narrowed a fraction, then she smiled broadly and stood up. “Thank you, Tanara Baker. That means more to me than you can know. But for now I feel I must apologize for disrupting your evening.” She drew the cloth close around herself. “And I should return to the Temple.”

“Oh…” Tanara looked at Leiard apologetically. “I’ll take you to the door.”

“Thank you.”

As the two women left, Leiard slowly sat down. Auraya is one of the White.

Bitterness overwhelmed him. He had seen the potential in her. She was intelligent but not arrogant. She was curious about other peoples, but not contemptuous of them. Her ability to learn and use Gifts was greater than any student he had taught.

Of course they had chosen her. He’d even told himself that it was better that she had joined the Circlians, because with the restrictions of a Dreamweaver life much of her potential would be wasted.

And how much better is it now that she is one of the immortal White? he asked himself bitterly. The world can benefit from her talents forevermore.

And her loss will torment you for all eternity.

The thought startled him. It sounded like his own mental voice, yet it felt like the mental voice of another person.

“Leiard?”

He looked up. Tanara had returned.

“Are you well?”

“A little surprised,” he said dryly.

Tanara moved to the opposite seat. The one Auraya had been sitting in. “You didn’t know?”

He shook his head. “It seems my little Auraya has come much further in the world than I thought.”

“Your little Auraya?”

“Yes. I knew her as a child. Taught her, too. She probably knows more about Dreamweaver healing than any priest or priestess.”

Tanara’s eyebrows rose. She looked away, her expression thoughtful. Then she shook her head. “I can barely comprehend this,” she said in a hushed voice. “You’re a friend of Auraya of the White.”

From behind them came a choking sound. Leiard turned to find Jayim standing on the staircase, his eyes wide in surprise at what he’d overheard.

“Jayim,” Tanara said, leaping up and pushing her son back inside. “You can’t tell anybody about this. Listen—”

Leiard rose and followed them down the stairs, going into his room. His dirty clothes still hung over the back of a chair. His bag was half empty, its contents spread over the bed. Sitting down, he swiftly stowed everything away again. As he placed the dirty robe in the top of his bag, he heard footsteps and turned to see Tanara stop in the doorway. She glanced at the bag and her expression hardened.

“I thought so,” she muttered. “Sit down, Leiard. I want to talk with you before you run off to your forest home.”

He lowered himself onto the bed reluctantly. She sat down next to him.

“Let me just check what I have heard. You said you taught Auraya when she was a child. You mean Dreamweaver lore?”

He nodded. “I had hoped she might join me.” He shook his head. “Well, you can see how that turned out.”

Tanara patted him on the shoulder. “It must have been frustrating. Strange that the gods would choose her, then. Surely they must know she was taught by a Dreamweaver.”

“Perhaps they knew where her heart truly lay,” he muttered bitterly.

Tanara ignored that. “It must have been odd talking to her again, even when you thought she was merely a high priestess. You sounded like you were getting along well enough when I arrived. Obviously you didn’t notice any change. You would have if this Choosing had turned her into someone different.”

“I know I said we were friends,” he replied. “But I said that to reassure you. Until today I hadn’t seen her in ten years.”

Tanara absorbed that silently.

“Consider this, Leiard,” she murmured after a while. “Auraya obviously wants to continue to be your friend. One of the White wanting to be friends with a Dreamweaver ought to be impossible, but it clearly isn’t. And if Auraya of the White is friends with a Dreamweaver, maybe other Circlians will treat Dreamweavers better.” Her voice lowered. “Now, you’ve got two choices. You can leave and return to your forest, or you can stay here with us and keep this friendship going.”

“It’s not that simple,” he argued. “There are risks. What if the other White disapprove?”

“I doubt they’d do anything more than tell you to leave.” She leaned closer. “I think that’s worth the risk.”

“And if the people decide they don’t like it? They might take matters into their own hands.”

“If she values your friendship she’ll stop them.”

“She might not be able to—especially if the White will not support her.”

Tanara leaned back to regard him. “I don’t deny there are risks. I only ask that you consider. You must do what your heart tells you.”

Standing up, she left the room, drawing the door shut behind her. Leiard closed his eyes and sighed.

Tanara is ignoring one simple fact; the gods would not have chosen anyone sympathetic to Dreamweavers, he told himself.

But they had chosen Auraya. Either she had developed a dislike of Dreamweavers, or they were playing a different game. He considered the possibilities. If they took an intelligent and Gifted woman who was sympathetic to Dreamweavers and caused her to turn against them, she might bring a new and fatal force to the Circlian hatred of heathens. She might be the one to destroy us completely.

And if he ran away and left her, alone and grieving, he might be the first to give her a reason to resent his people.

Curse the gods, he thought. I have to stay. At least until I know what’s going on.