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Priestess of the White (Age of the Five Trilogy, Book 1). Home · Priestess of the White (Age of the Five Report copyright / DMCA form · DOWNLOAD EPUB. Priestess of the White by Trudi Canavan Cuando Auraya fue elegida para ser sacerdotisa, nunca hubiera podido imaginarse que apenas una. Home>; FICTION>; Fantasy>; Priestess of the White - EPUB. Share This Title: Priestess of the White. Read a Sample · Read a Sample · Enlarge Book Cover.

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Priestess Of The White Epub

Kristin Cashore - wm-greece.info MB. 8 Blood Curse - 09 Blood Betrayal - Tessa wm-greece.info Age Of Five - 01 Priestess Of T - Trudi wm-greece.info Priestess Awakened part 1 of 1. Priestess Bound (Guardians of Sky and Shadow 2) - Lidiya wm-greece.info . Bright We Burn - Kiersten wm-greece.info The Ground Rules Rewritten (The Ground Rules 2) -Roya wm-greece.info KB If we'd have a High Priestess do some odious ceremony, as lanthe had done the year before. A year. The Conqueror's Saga series by Kiersten White.

Whenever I said so, the grownups would laugh at first, but then, wondering if they were not being tricked, they would look distastefully at the pallid face of that unchildlike child. Sometimes I happened to say so in the presence of callers who were not close friends of the family; then my grandmother, fearing I would be taken for an idiot, would interrupt in a sharp voice and tell me to go somewhere else and play. While they were still smiling from their laughter, the grownups would usually set about trying to confute me with some sort of scientific explanation. Trying to devise explanations that a child's mind could grasp, they would always start babbling with no little dramatic zeal, saying that a baby's eyes are not yet open at birth, or that even if his eyes are completely open, a newborn baby could not possibly see things clearly enough to remember them. But just then they would seem to be struck by the idea that they were on the point of being taken in by the child's tricks: Even if we think he's a child, we mustn't let our guard down. The little rascal is surely trying to trick us into telling him about "that," and then what is to keep him from asking, with still more childlike innocence: "Where did I come from? How was I born? But their fears were groundless. I had not the slightest desire to ask about "that.

After an exchange goes awry, Kell escapes to Grey London and runs into Delilah Bard, a cut-purse with lofty aspirations. She first robs him, then saves him from a deadly enemy, and finally forces Kell to spirit her to another world for a proper adventure.

Now perilous magic is afoot, and treachery lurks at every turn. To save all of the worlds, they'll first need to stay alive. A Gathering of Shadows It has been four months since a mysterious obsidian stone fell into Kell's possession.

Four months since his path crossed with Delilah Bard. Four months since Prince Rhy was wounded, and since the nefarious Dane twins of White London fell, and four months since the stone was cast with Holland's dying body through the rift--back into Black London. Now, restless after having given up his smuggling habit, Kell is visited by dreams of ominous magical events, waking only to think of Lila, who disappeared from the docks as she always meant to do.

This ceremony takes time. Tomorrow morning, we begin. The priestess held the bird firmly, brushing its wings down his bare arms and chest. Once she'd finished the backs of his legs, she said, "Enter," then she and her partner, a priest with a clay bowl of smoldering herbs, turned their attention to the next person in line.

Malcolm strode into the near-empty yard, a pair of muscular men on either side of him.

His morning had started early with Father Tavel rousing him from the makeshift bed on the priest's floor. Then, with Ulises and the two rap-fan guards, Seymour and Jean-Luc, they had loaded several boxes into their truck and a forty-year-old Volkswagen then driven them up to a white stucco church just outside of the city.

There, in the yard, boxed in by the church, an old cemetery, and a rusted, wrought-iron fence, they'd begun setting up.

More helpers trickled in, houngans and mambos, other priests and priestesses in and around the city. Together, under Tavel and Ulises' joint instructions, they cleaned and arranged the yard then erected a thick, painted pole at the center. It symbolized the crossroads. The door to the spirit world. Worshipers gathered outside the entrance around noon. Dozens at first, but their ranks now filling the street numbered in the hundreds if not thousands.

And more arrived still, many carrying gifts of food or sacrifice. Their combined murmurs and chatter swelled together into a rumbling cloud of noise. This was by far the largest ceremony Malcolm had ever seen. More and more of him resented Ulises' demand that Malcolm not bring a camera or notebook to record any of this. After they had finished the setup, Father Tavel and Madame Hero, the resident houngan asogwe and mambo asogwe, led everyone out of the yard for the cleansing.

Once sanctified, they brought in the other priests and priestesses, purifying them before they entered.

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Afterward, each took up their own birds and smoldering bowls to help usher in the growing crowd. Ulises stood a few feet inside the yard, his hand on the machete at his hip. Shirtless, his body covered in so many tattoos that it was hard to take them all in.

He closed his fist and nodded. The two escorts returned to the gate. Watch me. Admitting everyone might take a couple hours. Was he to stand here the entire time?

Priestess of the White (Age of the Five Trilogy, Book 1)

And what was with that eye tattoo? Ulises' part in all this was unlike any voodoo ceremony he'd ever encountered. He needed to remember as much of this as he could and write it down the first moment he had a chance. The two men escorted a gangly woman before them. As before, the old bokor thrust his palm out. After a couple seconds, he nodded. The two men went back to fetch another worshiper, and the woman sauntered off into the yard.

Malcolm motioned to the sheathed machete at Ulises' side. Hounacier is mine to carry. He raised his palm, lowered it, then allowed him to move on. As frustrating as it was, this was a rare if not unique opportunity.

Bokors rarely gave interviews, especially ones of Ulises' renown. Best to not irritate the old man lest he lose it.

He glanced back at the sheathed blade. Hounacier, he called it. The dark, polished sheath and white grip, etched and carved into the head of something like a strange nocturnal animal, were so pristine, so new in appearance, that they stood out against the rest of Ulises' worn attire. Keeping straight, Malcolm remained silent as the men brought devotees up one at a time before them. Each time, Ulises held his palm out before ushering them in. After what he guessed was half an hour, a few of the drummers began warming up, their beats echoing though the yard.

Turning his head a little, Malcolm watched through the corner of his eye as they played while others milled around. My grandmother had gone to the theater, and my father's cousins and my mother were noisily enjoying the respite. My mother had had occasion to take something up to the second floor. Following her, I had become entangled in the trailing skirt of her kimono and had fallen. My grandmother was summoned by telephone from the Kabuki Theater.

When she arrived, my grandfather went out to meet her. She stood in the entryway without taking her shoes off, leaning on the cane that she carried in her right hand, and stared fixedly at my grandfather. When she spoke, it was in a strangely calm tone of voice, as though carving out each word: "Is he dead?

On the New Year's morning just prior to my fourth birthday I vomited something the color of coffee. The family doctor was called. After examining me, he said he was not sure I would recover. I was given injections of camphor and glucose until I was like a pincushion. The pulses of both my wrist and upper arm became imperceptible.

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Two hours passed. They stood looking down at my corpse. A shroud was made ready, my favorite toys collected, and all the relatives gathered.

Almost another hour passed, and then suddenly urine appeared. My mother's brother, who was a doctor, said, "He's alive! A little later urine appeared again. Gradually the vague light of life revived in my cheeks. That illness—autointoxication—became chronic with me. It struck about once a month, now lightly, now seriously.

I encountered many crises. By the sound of the disease's footsteps as it drew near I came to be able to sense whether an attack was likely to approach death or not. My earliest memory, an unquestionable one, haunting me with a strangely vivid image, dates from about that time. I do not know whether it was my mother, a nurse, a maid, or an aunt who was leading me by the hand.

Nor is the season of the year distinct. Afternoon sunshine was falling dimly on the houses along the slope.

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Led by the hand of the unremembered woman, I was climbing the slope toward home. Someone was coming down the slope, and the woman jerked my hand. We got out of the way and stood waiting at one side. There is no doubt that the image of what I saw then has taken on meaning anew each of the countless times it has been reviewed, intensified, focused upon.

Because within the hazy perimeter of the scene nothing but the figure of that "someone coming down the slope" stands out with disproportionate clarity. And not without reason: this very image is the earliest of those that have kept tormenting and frightening me all my life. It was a young man who was coming down toward us, with handsome, ruddy cheeks and shining eyes, wearing a dirty roll of cloth around his head for a sweatband.

He came down the slope carrying a yoke of night-soil buckets over one shoulder, balancing their heaviness expertly with his footsteps. He was a night-soil man, a ladler of excrement. He was dressed as a laborer, wearing split-toed shoes with rubber soles and black-canvas tops, and dark-blue cotton trousers of the close-fitting kind called "thigh-pullers.

Although I did not clearly perceive it at the time, for me he represented my first revelation of a certain power, my first summons by a certain strange and secret voice. It is significant that this was first manifested to me in the form of a night-soil man: excrement is a symbol for the earth, and it was doubtlessly the malevolent love of the Earth Mother that was calling to me.

I had a presentiment then that there is in this world a kind of desire like stinging pain. Looking up at that dirty youth, I was choked by desire, thinking, "I want to change into him," thinking, "I want to be him.

The first was his dark-blue "thigh-pullers," the other his occupation. The close-fitting jeans plainly outlined the lower half of his body, which moved lithely and seemed to be walking directly toward me.

An inexpressible adoration for those trousers was born in me. I did not understand why. His occupation… At that instant, in the same way that other children, as soon as they attain the faculty of memory, want to become generals, I became possessed with the ambition to become a night-soil man.

The origin of this ambition might have been partly in the dark-blue jeans, but certainly not exclusively so.

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In time this ambition became still stronger and, expanding within me, saw a strange development. What I mean is that toward his occupation I felt something like a yearning for a piercing sorrow, a body-wrenching sorrow. His occupation gave me the feeling of "tragedy" in the most sensuous meaning of the word.