He had seen a vorn once in the light of a full moon. It had been big, most likely enlarged in his eyes by his fear. These vorns were larger than his imagination had ever painted them. They seemed unperturbed by the sunlight, too. They were running down the road toward him in one sinuous black mass.
“Hurry up,” he snapped.
The crew had risen to see this impossible sight. At his words, they sprang to the ropes. Fiamo moved to the rail and shouted a warning to the other fishermen tied there. He felt his own boat rock as his men pushed it away from the pier. Harro rang the warning bell urgently.
Sails were unfurled, but remained slack. Fiamo realized his heart was pounding. He watched as the few villagers still outdoors in the small town sighted the coming mass of animals and fled inside their houses. The gap between his boat and the pier widened slowly. The length of road between the vorns and the pier was shrinking much faster.
“Oars!” he shouted.
Men scrambled to obey. As Fiamo stared at the advancing creatures they reached level ground. A shape appeared in the middle of them and he heard himself gasp in disbelief.
“A man! A man riding one of them!” Harro yelled.
At the same time, Fiamo felt the boat’s progress speed as oars dipped into the water on either side. He looked around the pier. The other boats, smaller and lighter, had made better progress. His was now the closest to the pier. Though he doubted even vorns of that size could leap the gap, something told him he was not out of danger yet.
The hunt spilled through the village like a black flood. Fiamo could see the rider better now, a man dressed in clothes like no commoner would wear. The boat was more than twenty strides from the pier and gathering speed as fear lent strength to the crew. The vorns ignored the houses. They loped onto the pier, then milled at the edge. The rider looked around at the fleeing boats, and his gaze returned to Fiamo’s. He raised a hand.
Fiamo drew in a breath, ready to defy the stranger’s order to return. No voice came across the water. Instead, the boat shuddered to a halt.
Then it rushed backward.
The oars jammed in their rings. Crew struggled uselessly with them. The boy gave a high-pitched shriek. Others cried out names of the gods. Fiamo crouched, paralyzed by terror, as his boat raced back to the shore like a woman who had just laid eyes on her lost love.
We’re going to smash into the pier, he thought.
At the last moment, the boat slowed. Even before it bumped into the pier, vorns were leaping aboard. There were splashes on either side as those men who could swim dived into the water. I should go too, he thought, but he remained where he was. Cursed fool I am. I can’t bring myself to give up my boat so easily.
A thought had burrowed its way into his mind. If this man could control these beasts, then he had only the man to fear. A man could be bargained with.
Still, Fiamo’s heart thundered in his chest as the vorns surged past him, their tongues lolling in mouths lined with sharp teeth. A few circled him, but they did not leap for his throat. He turned as yells of pain came from behind, and cried out in dismay as he saw vorns with their jaws fixed on the arms and legs of crew, but they were dragging the men away from the railing, not pulling them to the deck. With their added weight the boat floated low in the water.
Hearing the sound of wood sliding over wood, Fiamo turned back to see the gangplank move, unaided by any human, to the edge of the deck. As it settled on the pier the stranger rode aboard. He slid off the back of his mount and turned to stare at Fiamo.
“Captain,” the man said in a strange accent. “Tell crew take oars.”
Fiamo forced himself to look at his remaining crew, huddled together, ringed by vorns. Some, he heard, were murmuring prayers to the gods.
“You heard him, boys. Back to the oars.”
His voice shook, but held enough command to send the crew edging around the vorns to their former places.
“Pull up oars and keep them up,” the sorcerer ordered.
As the crew obeyed, the boat began to move away from the pier. The gangplank slid into the water like a bad omen. Fiamo stared in amazement as his boat picked up speed, cutting through the water despite the idle rowers and lack of wind.
Magic, he thought. He turned to find the stranger looking back to the shore. Following the man’s gaze, Fiamo saw a distant figure riding down the road to the village. A white figure on a galloping white mount.
Could it be…?
The newcomer pulled up at the end of the pier and leapt to the ground. The boat shuddered to a stop, knocking Fiamo and many of the vorns off their feet. Fiamo felt his heart lift as the craft began to move backward. He gazed at the white figure.
It is! It’s one of the White. We’re saved!
The stranger muttered something and the force pulling them backward lost its hold. Released, the boat drifted to a halt.
“Row,” the stranger growled. “Now.”
The men hesitated, glancing doubtfully at Fiamo.
Vorns growled.
Men grabbed oars and began to row. Fiamo climbed to his feet again. Slowly the boat moved away from the coastline. When the distant figure was a mere speck of white, the black sorcerer chuckled quietly. He turned his back on the coast and swept his gaze over the boat and its crew. When he met Fiamo’s eyes he smiled in a way that turned the captain’s blood to ice.
“Captain, do you have more oars?”
Fiamo looked around. Harro and Old Marro stood empty-handed. The boy whimpered as two of the vorns approached him.
“No,” Fiamo admitted. “But we—”
At some unspoken signal, the animals leapt up and seized the pair’s throats. As blood gushed forth, Fiamo felt all strength drain from his legs and he sank to the deck. There were no screams, but he could hear arms and legs flailing.
“Keep rowing,” the sorcerer barked. Fiamo heard him moving along the deck toward him. The sounds of the animals feasting was all too audible in the windless silence.
Old Marro. My neighbor’s boy. They’re dead. Dead.
The sorcerer loomed over him.
“Why?” Fiamo heard himself croak.
The man looked away. “They hungry.”
Then a rustle of cloth drew Fiamo’s eyes upward. The sails were billowing with air. The afternoon wind had arrived.
Where it would take them today, he did not like to guess.
The tower was taller than any she had seen. It was so high that clouds tore themselves upon it as they passed…
No. Not again.
Emerahl wrenched herself out of the dream and opened her eyes. It had come to her nearly every night for the last month. Each time it was the same: the tower fell on her and she slowly suffocated under the rubble. If she let it run to its end she woke up feeling shaken and frightened, so she had started waking herself up as soon as it began.
After all, it’s going to wake me up anyway. I may as well do so on my terms.
Sighing, she rose and poured some water into a kettle and started a fire. The flames cast eerie shadows on the walls of the lighthouse—the most menacing being that of herself with hunched shoulders and mussed hair.
Old witch woman, she thought at the shadow. No wonder the villagers fear you.
She hadn’t seen any of them for several days. Occasionally she wondered if “little Rinnie” was still evading the clutches of her father and his cronies. Mostly she enjoyed the peace.
Then why these dreams? she asked herself. Taking a few dried leaves from a jar, she sprinkled them into a cup. The kettle whispered as the water grew hot. She linked her fingers together and considered the dream.
It was always the same. The details never varied. It was more like a memory dream than an ordinary dream, but she had no memories like it. She prided herself on her memory and that she had never suppressed any of her recollections of the past. Good or bad, she accepted them as part of who she was.
This dream had a purposeful feel to it. Something she had not felt for a long
time. It reminded her of a…of a dream sent by a Dreamweaver!
This revelation sent a rare thrill of surprise through her. It was possible that a sorcerer had learned the skill, or even a priest, but something told her it was a Dreamweaver’s work.
But why send it? Had it been sent solely to her, or projected out to anyone sensitive enough to receive it? She drummed her fingers on her knees. The contents of a dream could be a clue to its origins. She considered the towers that she knew had existed in the past. None looked similar, but the dream tower could simply represent some other one. Or another building that had collapsed. She felt a chill run down her spine. Mirar had been killed when Juran, the leader of the Circlians, had destroyed Jarime’s Dreamweaver House and buried him in the rubble. It was said his body was crushed so badly he was barely recognizable.
Did this mean someone was dreaming about the death of Mirar? Someone with Dreamweaver skills so powerful that he or she was projecting the dream loud enough for Emerahl, in her remote location, to receive them. It made sense that a Dreamweaver would dream of the death of his or her leader, but why was he or she dreaming of it over and over. And why project it?
The kettle had begun to rattle softly now. Suddenly she was in no mood for a soporific. She wanted to think. Taking the kettle from the fire, she set it aside. As its bubbling subsided she heard the faint sound of voices outside.
She sighed. So they were coming at last. Time to show these upstart villagers why they should respect their elders.
Rising, she moved to the entrance of the lighthouse. Sure enough, a column of men was winding its way up the path to the lighthouse. She smiled sadly and shook her head.
Fools.
Then her amusement fled. At the head of the column was a man dressed entirely in white.
Priest! Turning away, she cursed loudly. No priest of the Circlians was strong enough to best her, but each was a conduit to their gods. And should the gods see her through this priest’s eyes…
She cursed again, then hurried back inside. Grabbing a blanket, she threw the most valuable of her belongings into it. With a scrap of thin rope she bound the blanket around these possessions. Hugging the bundle to her chest, she moved to the far side of the room.
“Sorceress!”
The voice was the village head’s. Emerahl froze, then forced herself to move. Drawing magic, she swept away the dirt covering a section of the floor. A large rectangle of stone appeared.
“Come out, sorceress, or we’ll come in and drag you out!”
Quickly! Drawing more magic, she sent dirt flying. A stairway appeared. She forced thick dirt out of the tunnel beyond. Stone appeared, then a cavity. Finally, with a gasp of relief, she cleared the mouth of a tunnel.
“All right. We’re coming in.”
“I will enter first, for your safety,” an unfamiliar voice said. There was a weak protest. “If she is a sorcerer, as you say, she may be more dangerous than you expect. I have dealt with her kind before.”
Emerahl fled into the tunnel. A few steps into the darkness, she turned and reached out with her mind. Dirt cascaded into the tunnel as she pulled it toward her. She could not tell if it was enough to conceal her exit.
Best get away, then. She willed a light into existence. It revealed a staircase descending into blackness. Clutching her bundle, she hurried down.
The stairs seemed endless, but at least the tunnel hadn’t deteriorated too much. In places the walls or roof had given way and she had to push through carefully. The air was growing damp when she heard a faint echo of sound from behind her.
She cursed again. That tunnel had been her secret for over a hundred years. She should have chased off the smugglers when they had first arrived, but she had rightly feared that news of a fearsome sorceress living in the lighthouse would attract unwanted attention. Now she was being driven out of her home by their descendants.
A fierce anger gripped her. It was tempting to ambush them in the dark. So long as the priest didn’t see her, she would be safe. She could kill him, and the rest, before they knew what had happened.
“Nothing stays the same. All you can be sure of in life is change.”
Mirar had said that. He had faced the final change: death. One mistake and she would join him. It was not worth the risk.
She ran down the rest of the stairs.
At the bottom was a stone door. No point in persuading the mechanism to work. It was probably rusted shut. Extending her hands, she channelled magic through them. Force struck the stone and it shattered with a deafening boom. She stepped out onto a narrow path to the left of the door.
It was not a path so much as a fold of rock in the cliff. She extinguished her light and continued by moonlight. Her old body was already aching from her flight down the passage. Now she felt unsteady as she hurried along the path, one hand touching the cliff side for balance.
She did not dare pause to look behind. When the pursuit reached the end of the tunnel, she would hear it. The cliff curved around, so she was probably out of sight already.
The path narrowed and she was forced to press herself flat against the rock and edge along it, balancing on her toes. Finally she felt a break in the rock face. She shuffled to it and hauled herself into the cave.
Cupping her hand, she created another light. The cave was shallow and most of the space was filled by a small boat. She examined it closely. It was made of a single piece of saltwood, a rare and expensive timber that was difficult to work but took hundreds of years to deteriorate. The name she had painted on the prow so long ago had flaked away.
“Hello again, Windchaser,” she murmured, running her hands over the fine grain. “I haven’t got any sails for you, I’m afraid. I’ll have to rig up a blanket for now.”
Taking hold of the prow, she dragged it toward the mouth of the cave. When most of it was projecting from the cliff, she gave it a firm shove with magic. It flew outward and down, guided by her mind, and splashed onto the surging sea.
Next she sent the bundle down into the boat, hoping that the more delicate of her possessions would survive the landing. A wave threatened to toss the boat against the cliff, but she held it in place with her will. She stepped to the edge and drew in a deep breath. The water was going to be very cold.
Then she heard voices to her right. Peering around the edge of the cave she saw moving light no more than fifty strides away.
Smothering a curse, she forced her old body to dive forward, as far out from the cliff as possible.
She fell.
Liquid ice suddenly surrounded her. Though she had braced herself for the cold, it took all her effort not to gasp out in shock and pain. Twisting around, she kicked toward the light of the moon.
As her head broke through the surface of the water she felt a wave force her toward the cliff. She reached for more magic and pushed against the solid presence behind it. Water gurgled around her as she surged forward. In a moment she had reached the boat.
It was perilously close to the land now, the sea having taken advantage of it while she was occupied with diving and swimming. Grabbing hold of the side, she hauled herself in. For a moment she lay in the bottom, gasping at the effort it had taken and cursing herself for allowing her body to grow so unfit.
Then she heard a shout. She sat up and looked back. Men clung to the rockface. The priest was nowhere in sight.
Smiling, she focused her mind on the cliff and pushed. The boat shot away, sending spray to either side. The cliff slowly receded, taking with it the villagers who had driven her from her home.
At that thought, she cursed savagely.
“A priest! Here! By the gods’ balls, Windchaser, isn’t there anywhere I can go that the Circlians haven’t seeded with their poisonous stink?”
There was no answer. She looked at the mast strapped securely down in the belly of the vessel and sighed.
“Well, what would you know, anyway? You’ve been trussed up like a grieving widower for years. I guess you and I had best
get to the task of finding you a sail and me a new home.”
9
When Danjin entered Auraya’s reception room he saw a now-familiar tall man by the window. Leiard, he thought. On time, as always.
The Dreamweaver turned and nodded to Danjin politely. As Danjin returned the gesture he noted that condensation from the Dreamweaver’s breath marked the window. He felt the hairs on his neck begin to prickle. How could anyone stand so close to the glass, with that drop outside?
He had noticed that Leiard always moved to the closest window when entering a Tower room. Was he fascinated by the view? Danjin looked closely at the Dreamweaver, who was staring outside again. Staring quite intently, too. Almost as if he wanted to step through it and…and…
Escape, Danjin suddenly thought.
Which would be understandable. Here he was, standing in the one place where the gods’ influence was strongest in the world. The gods who had executed the founder of the Dreamweavers.
Yet this staring was the only sign Danjin had ever seen of Leiard’s discomfort. I’ve never seen him agitated, but then I’ve never seen him relaxed, either. He gives the impression that his thoughts and emotions are always under tight control.
The door to Auraya’s private rooms opened. She smiled as she saw her guests. Danjin made the formal gesture of the circle. Leiard, as always, remained motionless. Auraya had never shown any hint of being offended by this.
“Danjin Spear. Dreamweaver Leiard,” she said. “Are we packed and ready?”
Her face was aglow with excitement. She was like a child about to embark on her first journey away from home. Leiard indicated a worn bag beside a chair.
“I am ready,” he said solemnly.
Auraya looked at the bag. “That’s all?”
“All I ever travel with,” he replied.
“Our luggage is already on the ship,” Danjin informed Auraya. He thought of the three large trunks he had sent ahead. One had been full of scrolls, gifts and other items related to their journey’s purpose. Another had been full of Auraya’s belongings. The third had been the largest, filled with his own clothing and possessions. Leiard and Auraya had it easy, he decided. They both wore a uniform, not the endlessly varied finery he was expected to wear as a member of Hanian high society.