Priestess of the White aotft-1
Trudi Canavan
Priestess of the White
( Age of The Five Trilogy - 1 )
Trudi Canavan
In a land on the brink of peace - watched jealously by a ruthless cult from across the sea and beset by hidden enemies - five extraordinary humans must serve as sword and shield of the Gods.
Auraya is one.
Her heroism saved a village from destruction; now Auraya has been named Priestess of the White. The limits of her unique talents must be tested in order to prove her worthy of the honor and grave responsibility awarded to her. But a perilous road lies ahead, fraught with pitfalls that will challenge the newest servant of the gods. An enduring friendship with a Dreamweaver - a member of an ancient outcast sect of sorcerer-healers - could destroy Auraya’s future. And her destiny has set her in conflict with a powerful and mysterious, black-clad sorcerer with but a single purpose: the total annihilation of the White. And he is not alone...
Priestess of the White
Trudi Canavan
PRIESTESS OF THE WHITE
Book One of a phenomenal new epic fantasy trilogy
AGE OF THE FIVE
by international bestselling author
TRUDI CANAVAN
A brutally powerful blast battered her shield...
Auraya put all her concentration into drawing and channeling magic. The Pentadrian watched her intently, showing no sign of effort as his onslaught grew ever stronger. Then she found she could no longer draw magic fast enough to counter his attack. White light dazzled her as he broke down her defenses. She knew a brief instant of pure agony. Staggering backwards, she gasped for air and looked down at herself. She was alive and, to her surprise, unhurt.
Flee! Juran’s communication was like a shout in her mind. He is stronger. There is nothing more you can do.
The knowledge hit her like a physical blow. The Pentadrian could kill her. She felt a wave of terror and hastily created another shield. Looking up at the sorcerer she saw him smiling broadly. So much for immortality, she found herself thinking. People are going to remember me as the shortest-lived immortal in history. They’ll make jokes about me... She took a few steps toward the side door and encountered an invisible force.
“No, no,” the Pentadrian said. “You are not leaving.”
An Imprint of HarperCollins Publishers
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be Construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
EOS
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New York, New York 10022-5299
This book was originally published in Australia in 2005 by Voyager, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
Copyright (c) 2005 by Trudi Canavan
ISBN-13: 978-0-06-081570-7
ISBN-10: 0-06-081570-1
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address Eos, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
First Eos paperback printing: January 2006
HarperCollins(r) and Eos(r) are trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
Printed in the U.S.A.
To Paul
Acknowledgments
Many thanks:
Firstly to “The Two Pauls” and Fran Bryson who read the roughest of the rough drafts. Also to Jennifer Fallon, Russell Kirkpatrick, Glenda Larke, Fiona McLennan, Ella McCay, Tessa Kum for their feedback. To all the readers, especially all my friends on Voyager Online. And, finally, to Stephanie Smith and the Voyager Team.
Prologue
Auraya stepped over a fallen log, taking care that no crinkle of crushed leaves or snapping of twigs betrayed her presence. A tug at her throat warned her to look back. The hem of her tawl had caught on a branch. She eased it free and carefully chose her next step.
Her quarry moved and she froze.
He can’t have heard me, she told herself. I haven’t made a sound.
She held her breath as the man rose and looked up into the mossy branches of an old garpa tree. His Dreamweaver vest was dappled with leafy shadows. After a moment he crouched and resumed his examination of the underbrush.
Auraya took three careful steps closer.
“You’re early today, Auraya.”
Letting out a sigh of exasperation, Auraya stomped to his side. One day I’m going to surprise him, she vowed. “Mother took a strong dose last night. She’ll sleep late.”
Leiard picked up a piece of bark, then took a short knife from a vest pocket, slid the point into a crack and twisted it to reveal tiny red seeds inside.
“What are they?” she asked, intrigued. Though Leiard had been teaching her about the forest for years there was always something new to learn.
“The seed of the garpa tree.” Leiard tipped out the seeds and spread them in his palm. “Garpa speeds the heart and prevents sleep. It is used by couriers so they can ride long distances, and by soldiers and scholars to keep awake, and...”
Falling silent, he straightened and stared into the forest. Auraya heard a distant snap of wood. She looked through the trees. Was it her father, come to fetch her home? Or was it Priest Avorim? He had told her not to speak to Dreamweavers. She liked to secretly defy the priest, but to be found in Leiard’s company was another matter. She took a step away.
“Stay where you are.”
Auraya stilled, surprised at Leiard’s tone. Hearing the sound of footsteps, she turned to see two men step into view. They were stocky and wore tough hide vests. Both faces were covered in swirls and dashes of black.
Dunwayans, Auraya thought.
“Stay silent,” Leiard murmured. “I will deal with them.”
The Dunwayans saw her and Leiard. As they hurried forward she saw that each carried an unsheathed sword. Leiard remained still. The Dunwayans stopped a few steps away.
“Dreamweaver,” one said. “Are more people in the forest?”
“I do not know,” Leiard replied. “The forest is large and people seldom enter.”
The warrior gestured with his sword toward the village. “Come with us.”
Leiard did not argue or ask for an explanation.
“Aren’t you going to ask what’s going on?” Auraya whispered.
“No,” he replied. “We will find out soon enough.”
Oralyn was the largest village in northwestern Hania, but Auraya had heard visitors grumble that it wasn’t particularly big. Built on the summit of a hill, it overlooked the surrounding fields and forest. A stone Temple dominated the rest of the buildings and an ancient wall encircled all. The old gates had been removed over half a century ago, leaving misshapen stumps of rust where hinges had once been.
Dunwayan warriors paced the wall and the fields outside were empty of workers. Auraya and Leiard were escorted along equally empty streets to the Temple, then directed inside. Villagers crowded the large room. Some of the younger men wore bandages. Hearing her name, Auraya saw her parents and hurried to their side.
“Thank the gods you’re alive,” her mother said, drawing Auraya into an embrace.
“What’s happening?”
Her mother sank to the floor again. “These foreigners made us come here,” she said. “Even though your father told them I was sick.”
Auraya undid the ties of her tawl, folded it and sat down on it. “Did they say why?”
“No,” her father
replied. “I don’t think they intend to harm us. Some of the men tried to fight the warriors after Priest Avorim failed, but none were killed.”
Auraya was not surprised that Avorim had been defeated. Though all priests were Gifted, not all were powerful sorcerers. Auraya suspected there were farmers with more magical ability than Avorim.
Leiard had stopped by one of the injured men. “Would you like me to look at that?” he asked quietly.
The man opened his mouth to reply, but froze as a white-clad figure moved to stand beside him. The injured man glanced up at Priest Avorim then shook his head.
Leiard straightened and looked at the priest. Though Avorim was not as tall as Leiard, he had authority. Auraya felt her heartbeat quicken as the two men stared at each other, then Leiard bowed his head and moved away.
Fools, she thought. He could stop the pain at the least. Does it matter that he doesn’t worship the gods? He knows more about healing than anyone here.
Yet she understood the situation wasn’t that simple. Circlians and Dreamweavers had always hated each other. Circlians hated Dreamweavers because Dreamweavers didn’t worship the gods. Dreamweavers hated the gods because they had killed their leader, Mirar. Or so Priest Avorim says, she thought I’ve never heard Leiard say so.
A metallic clunk echoed through the Temple. All heads turned toward the doors as they swung open. Two Dunwayan warriors entered. One had lines tattooed across his forehead, giving the impression of a permanent scowl.
Auraya’s heart skipped as she recognized the pattern. He is their leader. Leiard described these tattoos to me once. Beside him was a man in dark blue clothing, his face covered in radiating lines. And he is a sorcerer.
The pair looked around the room. “Who leads this village?” the Dunwayan leader asked.
The village head, a fat merchant named Qurin, stepped forward nervously.
“I do.”
“What is your name and rank?”
“Qurin, Head of Oralyn.”
The Dunwayan leader looked the plump man up and down. “I am Bal, Talm of Mirrim, Ka-Lem of the Leven-ark.”
Leiard’s lessons were coming back to Auraya. “Talm” was a title of land ownership. “Ka-Lem” was a high position in the Dunwayan military. The latter ought to be linked to the name of one of the twenty-one warrior clans, but she did not recognize the name “Leven-ark.”
“This is Sen,” Bal continued, nodding to the sorcerer at his side. “Fire-warrior of the Leven-ark. You have a priest with you.” He looked at Avorim. “Come here and speak your name.”
Avorim glided forward to stand beside the village head. “I am Priest Avorim,” he said, the wrinkles of his face set in an expression of disdain. “Why have you attacked our village? Set us free at once!”
Auraya suppressed a groan. This was not the way to address a Dunwayan, and definitely not the way to address a Dunwayan who had just taken a village hostage.
Bal ignored the priest’s demand. “Come with me.”
As Bal turned on his heel, Qurin looked desperately at Avorim, who put a hand on his shoulder in reassurance. The pair followed Bal out of the Temple.
Once the door had closed the villagers began speculating. Despite the village’s close proximity to Dunway, its people knew little about the neighboring land. They didn’t need to. The mountains that separated the two countries were near impassable, so trade was undertaken by sea or through the pass far to the south.
The thought of what Qurin and Avorim might say to upset Bal sent a shiver of apprehension down Auraya’s spine. She doubted there was anyone in the village, other man Leiard, with enough understanding of Dunwayans to negotiate a way out of this situation. But Avorim would never allow a Dreamweaver to speak for them.
Auraya thought back to the day she had first met Leiard, nearly five years before. Her family had moved to the village in the hope that her mother’s health would improve in the clean quiet of the country. It hadn’t. Auraya had heard that Dreamweavers were good healers, so she sought out Leiard and boldly asked him to treat her mother.
Since then she had visited him every few days. She’d had a lot of questions about the world that nobody could answer. Priest Avorim could only tell her about the gods, and he was too weak to teach her many magical Gifts. She knew Leiard was strong magically because he had never run out of Gifts to teach her.
Though she disliked Avorim she understood that she ought to learn Circlian ways from a Circlian priest. She loved the rituals and sermons, the history and laws, and counted herself lucky to be living in an age the gods had made peaceful and prosperous.
If I was a priestess, I’d be much better than he is, she thought. But that’s never going to happen. So long as mother is sick she’ll need me to stay here and look after her.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the Temple doors. Qurin and Avorim hurried inside and the villagers moved close.
“It appears these men are trying to stop the proposed alliance between Dunway and Hania,” Qurin told them.
Avorim nodded. “As you know, the White have been trying to form an alliance with the Dunwayans for years. They’re having some success now that suspicious old I-Orm has died and his sensible son, I-Portak, is ruler.”
“So why are they here?” someone asked.
“To prevent the alliance. They told me to contact the White to communicate their demands. I did, and I... I spoke to Juran himself.”
Auraya heard a few indrawn breaths. It was rare for priests to speak telepathically to one of the Gods’ Chosen, the four leaders of the Circlians known as the White. Two spots of red had appeared on Avorim’s cheeks.
“What did he say?” the village baker asked.
Avorim hesitated. “He is concerned for us and will do what he can.”
“Which is what?”
“He didn’t say. He will probably speak to I-Portak first.”
Several questions followed. Avorim raised his voice. “The Dunwayans do not want a war with Hania - they made that clear to us. After all, to defy the White is to defy the gods themselves. I don’t know how long we will be here. We must be prepared to wait for several days.”
As questions turned to matters of practicality, Auraya noticed that Leiard wore a frown of worry and doubt. What is he afraid of? Does he doubt that the White can save us?
Auraya dreamed. She was walking down a long corridor lined with scrolls and tablets. Though they looked interesting, she ignored them; somehow she knew that none of them contained what she needed. Something was urging her forward. She arrived in a small circular room. On a dais in the center was a large scroll. It uncurled and she looked down at the text.
Waking, she sat bolt upright, her heart pounding. The Temple was quiet but for the sounds of the villagers sleeping. Searching the room she found Leiard asleep in a far corner.
Had he sent her the dream? If he had, he was breaking a law punishable by death.
Does that matter, if we’re all going to die anyway?
Auraya drew her tawl back up around herself and considered her dream and why she was now so certain the village was doomed. On the scroll had been one paragraph:
“Leven-ark” means “honor-leaver” in Dunwayan. It describes a warrior who has cast aside all honor and obligations in order to be able to fight for an idealistic or moral cause.
It hadn’t made sense to Auraya that a Dunwayan warrior would dishonor his clan by taking unarmed villagers hostage or killing defenseless people. Now she understood. These Dunwayans no longer cared for honor. They could do anything, including slaughter the villagers.
The White were powerfully Gifted and could easily defeat the Dunwayans in a fight, but during that fight the Dunwayans might kill the villagers before the White overcame them. However, if the White gave in to the Dunwayans’ demands others might copy them. Many more Hanians could be imprisoned and threatened.
The White won’t give in, she thought. They’d rather some or all of us were killed than encourage others
to take villages hostage. Auraya shook her head. Why did Leiard send me this dream? Surely he wouldn’t torment me with the truth if there wasn’t anything I could do about it.
She considered the information in the scroll again. “Leven-ark.” “Cast aside all honor.” How can we turn that to our advantage?
For the rest of the night she lay awake, thinking. It was only when the dawn light began to filter softly into the room that the answer came to her.
After several days, tempers were thin and the stale air was heavy with unpleasant odors. When Priest Avorim wasn’t settling disputes among the villagers he was bolstering their courage. Each day he gave several sermons. Today he had told of the dark times before the War of the Gods, when chaos ruled the world.
“Priest Avorim?” a young boy asked as the story ended.
“Yes?”
“Why don’t the gods kill the Dunwayans?”
Avorim smiled. “The gods are beings of pure magic. To affect the world they must work through humans. That is why we have the White. They are the gods’ hands, eyes and voices.”
“Why don’t they give you the power to kill the Dunwayans?”
“Because there are better ways to solve problems than killing. The Dunwayans...” The priest’s voice faded to silence. His eyes fixed on a distant point, then he smiled.
“Mairae of the White has arrived,” he announced.
Auraya’s stomach fluttered. One of the White is here, in Oralyn! Her excitement died as the door to the Temple opened. Bal stepped inside, flanked by several warriors and his sorcerer, Sen.
“Priest Avorim. Qurin. Come.”
Avorim and Qurin hurried out. Sen did not follow. The radiating lines on his face were distorted by a frown. He pointed at the blacksmith’s father, Ralam.
