O lder people are supposed to be the cautious ones, Ranaan thought as he followed Dreamweaver Fareeh down the dark alley. Younger people are the ones that rush into danger. So what’s wrong with us? Why is my teacher the one willing to take risks while I’m the one who’s scared out of his wits?
They reached the end of the alley and Fareeh stopped to peer around a building into the larger street.
Because I’m a coward, Ranaan told himself, and Fareeh isn’t. It’s easier for him, too. He’s Gifted and he’s big. I’m a skinny runt, and I know I haven’t even learned enough Gifts in six months to defend myself from an attack of dartflies.
The big man stepped out into the street. Taking a deep breath, Ranaan forced himself to follow. They walked purposefully but kept to the shadows as much as possible. In this part of the city the only lamps that burned were those maintained by the occupants of the houses. The moon, however, was bright and round.
Ranaan glanced at his teacher. The Dreamweaver’s quiet confidence reassured patients at the hospice. He was everything they liked about Dreamweavers: sturdy, calm, knowledgeable and patient. He made these trips out to visit sick people despite the dangers because he was a nice person.
I just wish he didn’t insist I come with him.
Ranaan grimaced. I am not a nice person. I’m a coward who’d rather let someone die than risk a beating. I don’t deserve such a good teacher.
A door opened ahead. Ranaan’s heart began racing as three men stepped out, laughing. Fareeh did not even check his stride. He walked around them, Ranaan following.
The young Dreamweaver’s legs were shaking as he and his teacher continued down the road. He strained his ears for sounds of pursuit. There were footsteps, growing quieter. Was that because the men were making an effort to make less noise?
He looked behind. The men were walking in the other direction.
“Nearly there,” Fareeh murmured.
Ranaan glanced at his teacher and caught a knowing smile. He felt his face warm and said nothing. They turned into a lane. Fareeh paused and created a spark of light to illuminate the directions on the slip of paper he carried. He nodded, extinguished the light, and continued down the lane.
The way turned around a protruding section of a building then ended. Fareeh slowed and began looking up at the buildings around them.
“It says they have left a light in the…”
His quiet words were lost behind the bang of a slammed door. Footsteps sounded behind them. Ranaan turned and felt his heart begin to race again. He counted eight, maybe nine figures fanning out to surround him and his teacher.
“What are you doing here, Dreamweaver?”
The accent was typical of the poor quarter, but there was something about it that sounded wrong to Ranaan.
Fareeh gave the windows of the buildings one more quick glance.
“Discovering that I am in the wrong place,” he replied. “The directions I was given appear to be incorrect.”
“You’re right about that,” another voice said. Ranaan looked at the speaker. The man’s high voice did not match his heavy build.
“We will trouble you no longer,” Fareeh said. He took a step toward the gap between two of the men, then stopped. The men had moved closer together to block him.
Ranaan held back a groan of dismay and fear. His legs were shaking and he felt ill. He wondered if his heart could beat any faster. If it did, it might just leap out of his throat.
A spark of light appeared, illuminating the palm of Fareeh’s hand. It brightened and Ranaan looked beyond to the faces of the men. His mouth went dry as he understood why the poor-quarter accent had sounded wrong.
This was no street gang of the area. The accents had been faked. Though the clothes the men wore were plain, they were well made—casual wear for outdoor sports. Their smiles revealed near-flawless teeth. The high-voiced man was not muscular, but wore the fat of one who lived an indulgent life.
One, a blond with immaculately trimmed hair, took a step forward.
“You’re right,” he said. “You’re definitely not going to trouble us again.”
Then the lane contorted with magic. Ranaan heard Fareeh tell him to stay within his shield. He huddled against his teacher as attacks came from all sides.
All of them. They’re all Gifted. How can this be? Are the rich buying magical training for those sons who do not become priests?
Fareeh gave a small grunt of anger. He reached behind and gripped Ranaan’s arm. Pulling his student around, he leaned close.
“I’ll hold them,” he murmured. “You go. Go to the hospice. Get help.”
Ranaan staggered as Fareeh propelled him away. He saw the strangers turn to attack him and felt a rush of terror. His legs found their strength and he fled. Nothing stopped him. No one stepped out from the darkness to block his path. At the end of the street he threw himself around the corner and ran.
A few streets later he realized he wasn’t being followed and the feeling of panic subsided. He stopped as his mind began to work again and he realized two things: Fareeh wouldn’t have sent Ranaan for help if he’d thought he could free himself alone. He must be outnumbered.
Of course he’s outnumbered. There were eight of them!
The hospice was several streets away. Fareeh couldn’t possibly hold eight sorcerers off long enough for Ranaan to return with help.
I should go back and help him, he thought.
Don’t be stupid. What can you do? Recite herb cures to them?
Indecision paralyzed him. Suddenly he realized he could hear voices behind him. Laughter. Crows of delight. He recognized the high-pitched voice of the fat man and shuddered.
Realizing he was standing right in the pool of light cast by a lamp he spun around, searching for a hiding place. The closest was the shallow alcove of a doorway. He dashed into it and pressed himself against the door-frame, trembling.
The voices grew louder. Words like “easy” and “pathetic” and “good work” reached him. Then one of the men told the others to shut up.
They quietened. Urgent discussion followed, then footsteps. Ranaan held his breath as the men strode toward his hiding place.
“Hurry up!”
The steps quickened. Two men ran past Ranaan. They disappeared down the end of the street. Other footsteps faded away as the men separated and headed in different directions.
Ranaan then listened to the sounds of the street: the tiny rustlings of what he hoped were animals, the faint voices of an argument somewhere inside the house he stood beside, the trickle of water or sewage somewhere below.
Caution and fear fought the need to discover Fareeh’s fate. Finally, certain that the attackers were gone, he emerged from the doorway. He crept along the wall to the corner and peered into the lane. There were too many shadowed places there for him to be sure no one waited for him. With heart hammering, he forced himself to step into the lane.
His breathing seemed unnaturally loud. He reached the protruding building and peered around it. The lane was dark, but as he stared at the ground he began to make out a man-sized shape.
Fareeh….
Swallowing hard, he slowly made his way toward the shape. It was definitely a man, and the vest was a Dreamweaver’s. Ranaan’s boots made a small, wet sound as he reached the figure. He looked down and saw that the ground glistened faintly, and he recognized the tangy smell in the air. Blood.
The risk that the attackers might return suddenly did not matter. He concentrated and managed to produce a spark of light. The sight of Fareeh’s blankly staring eyes, and the great red pool of blood spreading out from behind the man’s head, shocked Ranaan so badly the light flickered out. He could not breathe properly. He found he was gasping out words as he stared at his dead teacher’s face.
“No. Not Fareeh. It can’t be.”
Then a hand touched his shoulder lightly. Ranaan jumped and spun around, terror suddenly returning. A man stepped back. Ranaan hadn’t heard the stranger approach, hadn’t even noticed the light from the spark hovering above the stranger’s hand.
But the face of the stranger did not belong to one of the attackers. It was a strange face, but the expression on it was one of sympathy. The man glanced over his shoulder.
“Someone’s coming. You’d best come with me.”
Ranaan hesitated and turned back to Fareeh.
“Nothing can help him now. Leave him, or you’ll end up the same.”
Ranaan’s legs obeyed him reluctantly. The stranger grasped his arm and drew him to a door. They moved down a long corridor and entered another lane.
A maze of lanes and passages followed. Time passed. Ranaan’s awareness of their journey came and went. At one point he collected his thoughts enough to ask for his rescuer’s name.
“Amli.”
“You’re from Sennon, then?”
“The south.”
“Why are you helping me?”
“You need it. Where I come from people do not abandon their fellow mortals to thugs or killers, if they can help it.”
Ranaan winced. “He told me to run and get help.”
“Ah. Sorry. I did not mean you, I meant myself. You could not have saved your friend. Neither could I, I must admit. There were too many of them.”
“He knew it. He knew I couldn’t get back in time.”
“That is likely. It is also likely he sent you away to save your life.”
Ranaan shook his head. “I should return to the hospice. I should tell them what happened.”
Amli stopped and placed a hand on his arm. “Those thugs will be waiting for you there. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were waiting outside wherever it is you stay when you’re not at the hospice, too. You are a witness. Did you get a good look at them?”
“Yes.”
“Then you can’t go back. They won’t want to risk that you will identify them.”
Ranaan shuddered. “Do you think the patient we came to see wasn’t real? That it was an ambush?”
“Were you there to treat someone?”
“Yes. We had directions.”
Amli looked grim. “Possibly. The sooner I get you off the streets the better.”
They started walking again. Ranaan could not help picturing Fareeh’s body lying in the laneway, abandoned. He couldn’t think beyond that image. When Amli stopped and opened a door, Ranaan let himself be ushered into the bright room beyond.
A middle-aged woman rose to greet Amli. He introduced her as his wife. She hummed with concern at Amli’s story, guided Ranaan to a chair and pressed a mug into his hands. The drink within was unfamiliar and alcoholic, but it tasted sweet and brought a comforting warmth that soothed the ache inside enough so that he could think clearly again.
“Thank you,” he said belatedly. “Both of you.”
The couple smiled. “I’ll put some bedding together for you,” the woman said, then disappeared up a staircase.
Ranaan looked around the narrow room. A brazier burned to one side, and benches were arranged around it, hinting that people gathered here from time to time. He guessed that there was a bedroom or two upstairs. It was a small house, but clean and tidy.
“How long have you been here?” he asked.
Amli filled another mug with the drink. “Nearly a year. I have a stall in the main market. We import spices and pottery.”
A few strange ornaments adorned the walls. They looked out of place. Some of the pots near the brazier were oddly shaped. He examined the mug he was drinking from. The potter’s mark on the base was a picture of one of these odd pots, with a star marked on the side.
A star. Ranaan felt his skin tingle as a possibility occurred to him. His eyes fell to Amli’s neck. Beneath the collar of his tunic was a silver chain—a heavy chain for a heavy pendant.
“You said you’re from the south?” Ranaan said.
“Yes.”
“You’re Pentadrians?”
Amli did not reply straightaway. He regarded Ranaan solemnly, then took the mug from him.
“Why would you think that?”
“You don’t hate Dreamweavers.”
Amli chuckled. “So we can’t be Circlians. Therefore we must be Pentadrians.”
“Fareeh used to say you could tell a Sennon from a southerner because while Sennons tolerate other religions, they still like to pretend they don’t exist.”
“Not all Sennons are like that.”
“Which ones aren’t?”
Amli smiled. “The Sennonian Dreamweavers. And the Sennonian Pentadrians.” Amli refilled Ranaan’s mug. “We both know what it is like to be persecuted for our beliefs.”
“But you’re not persecuted in your own land.”
Amli smiled. “No.”
So he is a Pentadrian, Ranaan thought. He realized he was not bothered by that at all. Surprised, but not dismayed.
Amli handed Ranaan the refilled mug. “When we first came here, jealous traders put about the rumor that we were Pentadrians so that people wouldn’t buy from us. It convinced us we were right in claiming we were from Sennon.” He shook his head. “That is nothing to what they do to Dreamweavers. The Circlians are an evil lot.”
“And Pentadrians aren’t? Isn’t invading another country an evil thing to do?”
“Yes,” Amli agreed. He looked away and sighed. “It was wrong. Our gods had seen the evils of the Circlians and ordered us to stop them. We assumed war was the most effective way to achieve that, but we only ended up killing those we wished to save. And we paid the price for it with our own deaths.”
He looked terribly sad. Ranaan’s thoughts turned to Fareeh and he felt his heart wrench painfully. His teacher hadn’t been killed by Pentadrians, just thugs. Circlian thugs. Truly the Circlians were an evil lot.
“Tell me more about the Pentadrians. What are your gods like?”
Amli looked up and his gaze cleared. He smiled.
“What would you like to know?”
The roots Auraya was peeling were dyeing her skin orange. Jade hadn’t asked Auraya to do the task, she had simply handed her the roots and said “peel” in the tone of one who expected obedience. Auraya could see no point refusing; it kept her hands occupied while she tried to discover how to shield her mind.
At least Jade was willing to explain what the root was for. It was both a dye and a treatment for scalp disorders, though the latter worked best when the juice was applied fresh rather than as a powder mixed with water.
Other “cures” that Jade had prepared included a potion to liven a lazy heart made from insect poison, bark which produced a stimulant similar to but more powerful than those Leiard had once taught Auraya about, and mushrooms that Jade admitted were useful only for “recreational purposes.”
It was strangely logical to find that Mirar’s friend was as learned in cures and healing as he was. Preparing the different substances brought back memories of Auraya’s childhood, of helping and learning from Leiard. She felt a pang of regret. Things had been so much simpler then.
“Do you realize how much time you spend dwelling on regrets and worries?” Jade said suddenly. “I don’t know whether you’re chewing over leaving the White, agonizing over offending the gods or getting sentimental over your great lost love—or all three—but you certainly do a lot of it.”
Auraya looked up and managed a wry smile. Jade was constantly telling Auraya what she was feeling in order to let her know her attempts at hiding her mind were failing. “There’s not much else to do while peeling roots.”
“I must admit, self-pity wasn’t something I expected to sense so much of from a former White.”
“No? What were you expecting?”
The woman pursed her lips. “Arrogance. A self-righteous god-loving young woman with puffed-up notions of her own worth.”
“And that’s not what you found?”
“No. I could have lived with that. Instead I get to put up with ingratitude and self-pity.”
Auraya blinked in surprise. “Ingratitude?”
“Yes. I can sense your emotions, remember. There’s been little gratitude.”
“Gratitude can’t be forced. And it’s hard to maintain when your teacher is trying to be as unpleasant a companion as possible.”
“You haven’t done much to endear yourself to me so far either,” Jade retorted.
“Just proves your expectations were wrong. Though I think one was correct.”
“Oh?”
“I do love the gods.”
Jade stopped working and stared at Auraya, her expression unreadable.
“So I was wrong. Nice of you to point that out.” Her voice was flat, but Auraya could hear the suppressed anger and fear behind it.
“And you hate them,” she stated. “Why?”
Jade scowled and the cuts of her knife became more aggressive. “I could spend the whole day listing the reasons. I’ve had a thousand years to tally them up. But what point would there be in telling you? You won’t believe me, and even if you did, you would still love the gods. Love is blind, whether it be for a lover, family or the gods.”
“I know there was much to hate about the gods in the Age of the Many. That’s why the Circle fought the rest. You must have been pleased when so many were killed.”
Jade shrugged. “Mostly. Not all the gods were bad, though.”
“The Circle?”
“Baddest of them all.”
“Before or after the war?”
“Both.”
“What did they do after the war that was bad?”
“They executed Mirar.”
“Is that all?”
“No.” Jade’s expression darkened. “They killed other immortals. They persecuted Dreamweavers.”
“Does knowing that Mirar survived diminish your hatred at all?”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “No. They ordered him killed. That they failed doesn’t change that. In fact, it makes it worse knowing the torment he went through afterward, as he recovered.”
Auraya nodded. “Why do you think they ordered him, and the other Wilds, killed?”
Looking at her knife, Jade ran her finger along the blade. “Mirar actively worked against their control of mortals, as did some other immortals. The rest of us…they knew we hated them. We know what they were like before the war. If we told the world of their true natures, mortals might not be so willing to follow them.”
“What did the gods do that was so terrible?”
Jade stared at the cutting board, her eyes focused far beyond it.
“Enslaved people and nations, or wiped them out completely in revenge for a small slight in the distant past. They made whores out of their followers and sacrificed children. They changed mortals into monsters just to see if they could make them fly or breathe fire or grow to abnormal sizes.”
Auraya felt a shock. “The Siyee? But they willingly allowed themselves to be changed by Huan.”
“Huan took advantage of them,” Jade said. “She took the most gullible of her followers, those willing to do anything for her, to work on. They could not have known what it was going to do to them.” She made a noise of disgust. “But when it came to seducing innocents, Chaia was the most gifted. He would select beautiful young women to be his lovers, and when they grew too old or they no longer adored him utterly, he would cast them aside. It was said the pleasure he gave them ruined them, as no mortal man could match it.”
Auraya stared at Jade. The pleasure he gave…no mortal man could match… She shivered. She thought of the nights she craved Chaia’s touch. She hadn’t attempted to lie with another man since. Was that because none interested her, or because she knew no man could? Have I been ruined as well?
Jade was watching her closely. Auraya made herself nod. “You’re right; I do find it hard to believe you.”
“Give it time,” Jade said. She put down her knife. “I just need to…take care of something. I’ll be back soon.”
As the woman rose and left the cave, Auraya picked up another root and began to peel it. She barely noticed what she was doing. Instead her mind returned to what Jade had told her of the gods.
When she had confronted Mirar, intending to kill him, he had argued that the gods had done terrible things. He hadn’t described those deeds, but Huan had all but admitted that the gods had been guilty of something.
“The Age of the Many ended long ago,” Huan had said. “The excesses of that time are forgotten.”
She did not know what Huan had done to her followers in order to make the Siyee. It was hard to see their creation as a terrible thing, when the result was hardly a race of abominations.
But breathe fire? Abnormal sizes? Did Huan try to make races other than the Siyee and the Elai?
She shook her head. How could she judge the gods for things they had done so long ago? She hadn’t witnessed them. She could not know the truth…unless Jade or Mirar agreed to show her their memories.
Mirar would, she guessed, but he was far away. Would Jade agree to it? I don’t think so. She likes to keep her thoughts to herself. Can’t blame her, really. I wouldn’t want to let anyone see my mind without good reason, either. I certainly wouldn’t want her finding out about Chaia and me, for a start.
Jade’s story about Chaia had disturbed Auraya deeply. Had the nights she had shared with him damaged her in some way? Had he been trying to bind her to him through pleasure? Perhaps she had been wise to end the affair when she had.
:My, my. That took courage.
Auraya started and dropped the peeling knife. The voice in her mind had been faint, but familiar.
How can I be hearing Jade’s thoughts? As the answer came she felt both anger and embarrassment. She is mind-skimming! Is that what she wanted to take care of? Looking into my mind? She felt herself mentally recoil, wishing there was a fog, or a haze of some kind, that could at least blur her mind.
Auraya stood up. She wanted to storm out of the cave, but she couldn’t leave the void. Instead she paced around the beds.
“I was projecting.”
Spinning around, Auraya glared at Jade as the woman entered the cave.
“How dare y—”
“I wondered at first if you saw past my mind shield, but then I realized I was projecting my words as one automatically does in the dream trance. I didn’t expect you to hear, because nobody can hear the thoughts of a mind-skimmer. Nobody but you. You’ve done it, by the way.”
“Done what?”
“Your mind is veiled. Can you sense what you have done?”
She stared at Jade, caught between wanting to voice her anger and the knowledge that she might be able to escape the void and Jade. Taking a deep breath, she concentrated and slowly came to see that she had created the haze she had wished for. Not a veil, a fog.
“Yes,” she said.
“Good. Well, that was an unexpected bonus. I was only looking for something I could use to persuade you to try harder. Now you just have to learn to keep your mind shield there, all the time, until you’re not even aware of it—like breathing. I will provide distractions to test your concentration.” She sat down, wiped the knife clean and picked up a stone. Spitting on the stone, she began to sharpen the blade. “You haven’t finished,” she pointed out, nodding at the bucket of roots.
“I can’t leave?”
“Not yet.”
Taking another deep breath, Auraya quelled her anger. She sat down, picked up the peeling knife and continued with her work.
“So Chaia was your other lover,” Jade said in a conversational tone.
As anger rose, Auraya felt the haze around her mind thin. She concentrated and was relieved when it thickened again.
Jade smiled slyly. “You did say you loved the gods. I didn’t realize you meant it so literally. I’m impressed—and I’m not easily impressed. So tell me: are the gods as good at lovemaking as the legends say?”
“I don’t know,” Auraya replied. “I couldn’t say.”
Jade’s eyebrows rose. “I saw it all quite clearly, Auraya. You can’t lie to me.”
“I didn’t lie,” Auraya said. There’s no point denying it, so I may as well make the best of it.
“Oh yes you did.”
“No, I didn’t,” Auraya told her. “I have no idea what the legends say.”
Jade looked at her questioningly, then threw back her head and laughed.
The night was warm, heralding the coming summer. Reivan could smell it in the air. Though she rose early to attend to her duties, she found it hard to sleep on nights like these. There was a tension in the air, a feeling of expectation and dread. Soon the sun would blaze down and the nights would be too hot for comfort.
Tonight she had tossed and turned until restlessness sent her from her bed out onto the balcony. There the night breeze cooled her. She looked down at a city bathed in moonlight. Bright points of light outlined the main thoroughfares crisscrossing the city. Sanctuary lamps marked the edges of courtyards.
And in the courtyard directly below her room, a figure was strolling unhurriedly past. A familiar masculine figure. She held her breath, wondering if he had seen her, hoping he hadn’t sensed the thrill that had run through her at the sight of him.
Her heart lurched as he looked up at her and smiled. She raised a hand in reply.
Gods, I hope he doesn’t think I was watching him. Then she snorted quietly. Well, of course he does. He can read my mind. Oh, no.
He had changed direction and was now walking toward her. She forced herself to keep smiling, and to ignore the pounding of her heart. Stopping below her balcony, he looked up at her.
“The moonlight favors you, Reivan,” he said softly.
Her heart leapt into her throat, making it impossible to reply. He’s just being nice, she told herself. Flippant. Flirtatious.
His smile faded a little.
“I hope you aren’t allowing Imenja’s and my differences of opinion to spoil our friendship.”
Friendship? What friendship? I lust after him and he rightly ignores it. Reivan’s wry amusement eased the constriction around her throat.
“Of course not,” she replied, then impulsively added: “I’m just not used to flattery.”
His smile broadened again. “Then we shall have to amend that.”
She crossed her arms. “And what impression would that give people?”
“The right impression. You are an admirable woman.”
Heat rushed to her cheeks, and hope sent her heart racing again.
“Don’t tease me,” she said, then winced at the desperation in her voice. Embarrassed, she stepped back to hide her face.
“Forgive me.” His voice drifted up. “I did not mean to anger you.”
Angry? I’m not angry, I’m ashamed. Surely he sees that. Of course he does! She peered warily over the balcony again, but he had moved. Where is he now? She moved to the railing and searched the courtyard.
He had gone.
Feeling as if she had said something wrong, she returned to her bed to toss and turn some more.