Looking toward the valley, he saw a row of servants standing at the edge of the camp. As he watched, a figure walked out of the darkness. A Hanian soldier, covered in blood. Two servants stepped forward, wrapped a blanket around the man and guided him to a fire.
As a pair of Dunwayan warriors appeared, Danjin realized what was happening. These were the survivors of the battle who had been healed by priests and Dreamweavers.
I have to see this.
Walking past the waiting servants, Danjin started up the slope. The sky brightened slowly. By the time he neared the top of the ridge, he was able to see men and women coming back to camp. Some walked, some limped. Some were supported by servants. A few were being carried.
At the top of the ridge stood a familiar figure. He felt a stab of guilt as he saw her. She turned to regard him, then beckoned.
“Good morning, Danjin Spear,” Auraya said quietly.
“Auraya,” he replied. “I must apologize.”
“If you feel you must, then do so. But you are not to blame. They would have discovered it anyway. I did intend to tell them, and you, eventually.”
He looked down at the ground. “You must know I think you could have made a better choice.”
“Yes.”
“Good choice or not, you must be . . . disappointed at the result.”
She smiled tiredly. “So tactfully put. Yes, I was disappointed. It is in the past now. I have more important things to do.”
He smiled. “Indeed you have.”
Her attention shifted to the valley. Following her gaze, he saw movement among the fallen. Dreamweavers and priests were at work.
“The change I’ve long considered starting has begun by itself,” she murmured.
“Change?”
She shook her head. “The healer priests and priestesses, instead of ignoring or scorning Dreamweaver healing, are paying attention. They will learn much today.”
Danjin stared at her. Priests learning from Dreamweavers? Was this what she had been aiming for all along? As the implication of this dawned on him he felt dazzled by her brilliance. If the priests could offer the same services as Dreamweavers there would be no more need for Dreamweavers.
Did Leiard know? Had he ever guessed?
Danjin doubted the man would have liked the idea. And being his lover must have made Auraya hesitate to work toward bringing about the end of his people, even if it did mean she would save the souls of those she prevented from joining the heathen cult in the future.
How long had she been planning this? Had making Leiard the Dreamweaver adviser been a step in the process? Now that Leiard was gone she was free to continue her work.
Auraya sighed and turned around. Glancing back toward the camp, Danjin saw that the other four White were approaching.
“We’re going to have a little conversation with the gods now,” Auraya said lightly. “Go back to camp, Danjin. I’ll join you for breakfast soon.”
He nodded, then watched as she walked down the slope to join her fellow White.
A soldier limped out of the valley toward him. He glanced at Auraya again, then hurried over to help the man. For a long time now, Tryss had struggled to make sense of it. For hours he had lain in a daze, listening to the sounds of men and women murmuring in languages he didn’t understand. There was a desperation to their voices. Only much later did he realize that what he was hearing was praying.
It went on and on. Eventually most of the voices faded away. He wondered if the gods had answered. He hoped so.
A new voice had started, but this one did not speak the names of gods. It spoke a more familiar name.
“Tryss! You’re alive! Tryss! Wake up! Talk to me!”
It was so familiar. And comforting, somehow. Yet he wasn’t about to do what it said. Waking up meant pain. He’d had more than enough pain today.
“Tryss . . .” There was a long pause, then a choking sound. “Tryss. I have something to tell you. Wake up.”
He felt a stirring of curiosity. It wasn’t enough. The memory of pain was too frightening. He let himself drift.
Then pain came seeking him.
It was not like before—a distant, constant ache. It came in brief stabs. Each time it shot through his body it was followed by a sudden absence of pain. He felt himself dragged out of the comfortable place. The voice will be happy, he thought grumpily. I’m waking up; just what it wants. I’ll open my eyes and . . .
Suddenly he was staring up at a face. A man leaned over him, frowning with concentration. The face didn’t match the voice.
“Tryss! Oh, thank you!”
The exclamation came from Tryss’s left. He began to turn his head, but it hurt too much. So he rolled his eyes. He could see a blurred face. A female face.
She leaned forward and recognition came like a bolt of lightning.
“Drilli.”
I spoke, he thought. Perhaps I’m not dying after all. He looked at the man again. A Dreamweaver. Tryss felt another stab of pain followed by numbness. Rolling his eyes to the right, he saw and felt the Dreamweaver’s hands on his arm.
He felt movement inside his arm. Bones and flesh shifting. The sensation was peculiar and nauseating. Tryss decided it would be better not to watch. He looked at Drilli. She was so beautiful—even covered in mud, sweat and blood. She was grinning at him, her eyes all glittery.
“So what is it?” he asked.
She blinked and frowned. “What is what?”
“That you have to tell me.”
To his amusement, she paused. “So you heard that.” She bit her lip. “Perhaps we should wait until later. When you’re healed.”
“Why?”
“It’s . . . too early.”
“Too early for what?” He tried to lift his head and gasped as pain ripped down his back.
“Tell him,” the Dreamweaver said quietly.
Drilli looked at the man, then nodded. “Just remember that these things often go wrong in the first few months.”
Tryss sighed and rolled his eyes. “What things?”
She bit her lip. “I’m—we’re—going to be parents.”
“Parents?”
“Yes. I’m carrying . . .”
A baby. She’s pregnant. Tryss felt a thrill of excitement. The next stab of pain hardly bothered him. He grinned at Drilli.
“That explains why you’ve been sick all the time. I thought it must be all those spices you like in your food.”
She pulled a face.
Tryss opened his mouth to speak, but stopped as the Dreamweaver slid his hands behind Tryss’s neck. Pain shot down his body, then numbness. The Dreamweaver remained still for a long time. Slowly, feeling returned, but no pain. The Dreamweaver’s hands finally slid away and Tryss felt the man turn his attention to his other arm.
“That was . . . amazing,” Tryss managed.
“Keep still,” the Dreamweaver said.
Drilli shifted position to Tryss’s right side. He found he could move his arm. Lifting it, he was amazed to see there wasn’t even a scar left to mark his skin.
He was able to turn his head now, so he began to watch the Dreamweaver working. The sight of his other arm bent at a strange angle was disturbing, but as the Dreamweaver’s hands slowly moved over it, his elbow bent back in the right direction. Tryss felt a growing awe. He had heard of Dreamweavers’ legendary abilities, but nothing like this.
I was dying, he thought. And this man has done what should have been impossible: made me whole again. He has saved my life.
The Dreamweaver sat back on his heels and regarded Tryss critically. Then he rose and turned away.
“Wait.”
Tryss hauled himself to his feet. Belatedly he realized what he had done, and paused to look in wonder at his arms and body. Then he hurried after the Dreamweaver, Drilli following.