Colors in the Dreamweaver's Loom

  He shrugged. "That's easy. They thought you were a god."

  Zan gaped. "A god?" she demanded. "Why?"

  "Two reasons," he replied, and he reached out a hand and gently tugged a wisp of hair that had escaped from under her hood.

  "My hair? But . . ." Then comprehension dawned. "You mean, all the gods have red hair?"

  He nodded. Though his tone was grave, he had a smile as he said, "My mother, who orders the world, has a tidy mind. Her peoples are—distinct, and easily identified.

  "Color-coded," Zan said with a gasp of almost hysterical laughter. Then her eyes narrowed. "Two reasons, you said."

  He nodded, "What did you tell the shapeshifters to call you?"

  Zan frowned, remembering. "I said their people had called me Namegiver . . ." She trailed off, meeting his expectant eyes. "I still don't understand."

  Concern knit his brows together for an instant. "My brothers and sisters and I have use-names as well as true names. I am the Weaver; there is the Harvester, the Dreamer, the Star Sower, the Namegiver—"

  Zan cut him off with a small, shocked gasp. "Oh no. But I'm not one—a god, I mean."

  He shrugged again. "I didn't say you were, only that the shapeshifters thought you one. I do not know what you are, yet, or what you will be. Tell me your name."

  "Alexandra Scarsdale," she said, the name feeling peculiar in her mouth. "They call me 'Tsan."

  "I am Elgonar; remember that. But look—that must be one of your friends."

  Zan followed his gesture and saw Karivet's head at the edge of the cliff. He scrambled up the last stair and came toward them. The fox trotted forward to investigate. Karivet's eyes widened, and he bowed to the god, who smiled at him.

  "If I'd realized you were coming, I'd have repaired the stairway," he told them. "I have company so seldom it hardly seems worth the effort."

  "It's not so bad," Karivet replied, "if you don't look down."

  When everyone had gathered at the top of the stairs, Elgonar led them along a narrow path that crossed the crest of the hill and wound in slow switchbacks down to the wide front door of his house. The house was a vast dwelling carved from the bones of the mountain. Beyond the door was a wide flight of steps leading down to a huge entrance hall. The river ran through the center of the hall, spanned by a narrow, arching bridge, and the place was full of the river's music.

  Elgonar led them across the bridge and through several dim chambers to a room with great windows that looked out of the cliff. The view was stunning. The mountains stretched before them, flattening slowly to the pale plains in the distance, with the river glinting in the landscape like a silver thread in a tapestry. For a moment Zan could only gaze in wonder; then, with an effort, she turned her attention to the room. Its walls were hung with tapestries to lessen the chill, and the floor was covered with thick carpets. For all that, it was a cold room, full of the scent of damp stone. The furniture was sparse: several wooden chairs and a couple of low tables set with oil lamps. A huge loom dominated half of the chamber. Zan's eyes were drawn to the work on it; then she knit her brows and went for a closer look. It wasn't a trick of the light: the cloth on the loom was growing, though no one was working it. She looked a question at Elgonar, who smiled slightly.

  "It's the Loom of Fate," he said softly. "Sometimes I get weary, so I let the pattern come from a Dreamweaver's loom. See, this is an intricate one. That gray"—he gestured—"that's my color. It isn't often a Dreamweaver attempts to weave my Fate."

  Karivet and Iobeh exchanged stricken looks. "Eikoheh," he whispered. "She's weaving a Fate for us."

  Elgonar nodded.

  "But it's dangerous for her," Karivet protested. "She shouldn't have begun."

  Elgonar touched the boy's cheek gently. "And haring off to Windsmeet is safe? We are all reckless when need calls us.

  The weaving on the Loom caught Zan's attention again and she traced the patterns with her eyes. Six strands of color occurred throughout; the god's gray first appeared alone with the deep red strand. "Do we all have colors?" she asked. "That red, is it me?" At Elgonar's nod, she shook her head in bewilderment. "Is that all we are, colors in a Dreamweaver's loom? Don't we have any more reality than that? Do we merely tread out the Fate she weaves for us?"

  "No." It was Ychass who spoke. "My peo—the shapeshifters say that the gods choose the colors, but we make the patterns."

  Elgonar nodded. "Look." He pointed to a place in the weaving where a strange, vivid purple interrupted the pattern. "That is my sister whom you met at Windsmeet. Your Dreamweaver did not plan on her interference. The pattern shows that she was unprepared for it; she recovered, but the pattern changed. You see, the Loom merely guides, it does not govern."

  "But your sister is a god," Zan pointed out. "Of course a god can change the pattern, but that doesn't mean we can."

  Elgonar turned one hand palm upward. "What are you, Stranger, if not a break in Fate's pattern? What are any of you? I see a Vematheh with a sword and a Khedathen without one, a shapeshifter who weeps and two Orathi who have left their forest and yet live. You are colors in a Dreamweaver' s loom, but such vibrant, unexpected colors! Surely that is something in which to rejoice." He met their eyes in turn; then he sighed. "But you have not told me what it is you need from me."

  It was Karivet who found his voice and explained. Elgonar produced a bottle, filled it with water from the river in his house, and gave it into Karivet's keeping. Then he showed them to guest rooms where they could wash and rest. It felt wonderful to be warm and clean again. When they returned to the chamber with the Loom, Elgonar had laid a table with a simple meal of fish and stewed vegetables. They ate hungrily. Over the meal, the god told them that they could spend the night with him, but in the morning they would have to be on their way.

  "I am grateful you have come," he told them, "for it has been too long since I have had people with whom to talk. But it would not be safe for you to remain with me longer than a day and a night. My sister could make trouble for you. She jealously protects her territory, and although she will not trouble you while you quest, she would call it interference if I offered you aught beyond simple hospitality, and she would take steps. The only thing I can give you, besides the water, is some advice. My sister is cruel; she will cheat you if you are not on your guard, and that would be a pity after all your struggles. Walk warily with her and weigh her words carefully."

  As he finished, Ychass looked up and met his eyes. "Purple is the Trickster's color, is it not?"

  Elgonar hunched one shoulder. "It has been so in the past, when it has served her purpose. Truly, child of the Changing People, I dare tell you no more—only have courage, and remember, not all the gods are faithless." With that he rose from the table, excused himself, and left them to their own devices.

  After their meal they went to their rooms, where each enjoyed the first truly restful night of their travels. They woke to a morning bright with sunlight. Though Elgonar had left a table set with a lavish breakfast, they saw no sign of him. They lingered over their meal in the hope that he would appear, but when he did not, they had to leave without thanking him again. The sun warmed their spirits as well as their bodies. Even the treacherous descent could not daunt them, and they turned their steps toward Windsmeet with light hearts.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The trek out of the mountains was tiring but without incident. The companions reached the gentler foothills, and finally the plains, without confronting shapeshifters. Zan suspected that many of the high-circling hawks were sentries set to make sure she and the others did not stray from the riverbank, but she kept such thoughts to herself.

  When at last it was time for them to leave the Snowsblood and head again into the dry lands, they spent a whole day resting by the river so that they would be fresh for the evening's travel. As the day drew to a close, they filled their water skins, settled their robes and packs comfortably, and made for the desert. They had grown unused to the shifting footing of the sands,
and by the time they reached the spring at the knees of Windsmeet, they were footsore and weary. Zan dropped down beside the spring and drank thirstily.

  "I think I'm too tired to eat," she said.

  "Good. That will conserve our stores."

  The unfamiliar voice made Zan start. She turned to find the point of a sword held steadily in her face. Her darting gaze took in that the others were similarly threatened, but there was no sign of Ychass. Ychass? She sent her mind questing.

  A fly, Ychass replied. With Iobeh. I will do what I can.

  "We have a quest to discharge," Zan said with all the bravado she could muster. "Do you dare risk the anger of the gods?"

  "Rather that than the certain wrath of the Lord of the City," the Khedatheh retorted dryly. "Will you come quietly, then?"

  Before Zan could answer, Remarr spoke harshly. "For shame, Edevvi! You call yourself Khedatheh, but you have forgotten the honor by which your people live. Even I, who carry no sword and make no pretense of valor or honor, know that it is the act of a scoundrel to take captive people under Khedathi protection without first offering khed-harevel."

  With foreboding, Zan took the meaning of the term from Edevvi's mind: trial by sword. Edevvi laughed. "What? You've found courage after all these years? Do you think to borrow a sword, or are you counting on the gods to preserve you? But your point is taken. We offer you challenge."

  Vihena drew her sword, knocking aside the blade of the startled person who guarded her, and stepped to Remarr's side. "I am the Khedatheh here—of clan Khesst. I will meet your champion, for all that your challenge was made without courtesy." She was closely veiled and hooded, and in the uncertain light it was difficult to see her eyes. Edevvi's startled thought, A Khesst! Gods! was clear to Zan.

  Edevvi stepped back with a slight bow, then with a gesture summoned the others. The guards sheathed their weapons and left the companions to gather in a tight knot and confer.

  Remarr whispered to Vihena, "I didn't mean for you—"

  She cut him off with a wave of one hand. Sign. Voices carry. It was quick thinking. Don't apologize.

  You have friends among the garrison. I didn't mean—

  Again she cut him off. What do you think the Lord of the City wants with us? Those who sell their honor cannot afford friendship. Besides, I was never close to Edevvi. Where's Ychass?

  Near, Zan signed. She will aid us if—

  No! Vihena's gesture was vehement. This must be done with honor. If she chooses, she may flee, but any other action is treachery, and I will have no part of it.

  Ychass took her own shape in their midst. I have no intention of abandoning you, you stiff-necked Khedatheh, she signed to Vihena. I have begun to understand friendship, she thought to Zan, but honor still baffles me.

  Me, too, Zan agreed feelingly.

  "We have chosen our champion," one of the Tame Khedathi called, "if you are ready."

  Vihena hesitated for a moment, then clapped Iobeh and Karivet's shoulders and met Zan's eyes. "If I fail, go peacefully." Then she turned to meet her challenger.

  The two robed figures saluted one another, then closed, their swords clashing viciously. Zan tried to listen to their thoughts as they fought, but their minds were full of the hiss and shiver of their weapons. Around and around they circled, swords darting, feet shifting quickly and surely. To Zan's untrained eye, their movements were graceful, like a beautiful, intricate dance, not a life-and-death struggle. She could not tell who was the more skillful; after a time, she could not even tell which was Vihena. It was easy to forget the two were fighting, until a sword found a mark and a dark stain bloomed on one combatant's upper arm, but only a sharp hiss of pain interrupted the circling. Their movements never slowed. Time was suspended. Zan was unready for the end when it came: a leap and a lunge, and a sword sliding cleanly into the other combatant's breast. The person left standing knelt and unhooked the fallen one's veil. The woman's eyelids fluttered weakly.

  "Well fought, Vihena Khesst," she whispered. "I taught you well." The eyes closed.

  "Khehaddi," Vihena said. Then her voice rose to a wail. "Khehaddi!" She reached to the throat of her own robes and rent them with a sharp yank. Then she buried her face in the dead captain's robes, her shoulders shaking.

  The Tame Khedathi exchanged looks. "Vihena," Edevvi hissed. "But she called herself Khesst!"

  "And so she is," Remarr insisted. "Foster daughter to Emirri, leader of clan Khesst."

  Edevvi stared at them all for a long moment. Then her control broke. "It's your doing," she cried, pointing at Zan. "What are you? Wonders happen in your wake. Orathi leave their forest and go questing, outcasts are accepted, a shapeshifter shows loyalty, and a City wench kills the greatest swordswoman of our age. Why?" In her anger, she grabbed Karivet by the shoulders and shook him until he met her eyes. "She doesn't belong here. Why has she come to trouble us?"

  Karivet's voice went lifeless. "The Weaver strung her color on the Loom of Fate. What choice had she but to come? As for troubling you, it takes many influences to shape Fate's pattern. None of you is blameless in it."

  "How dare you?" she raged.

  "The oracle has no choice but to answer when questioned."

  "Then answer this," Edevvi demanded, her voice trembling. "Vihena could never have won against Khehaddi in a fair fight. Why did my captain lose?"

  "She permitted Vihena to win because she could not bear to see her die."

  "Gods!" Edevvi gasped, and Vihena moaned in anguish. Karivet wrenched himself out of the stunned Khedatheh's grip. She stared at him with loathing. "You shouldn't have told me that," she said brokenly. "I didn't want to know."

  "Then you shouldn't have asked me," Karivet told her, his face tight. "I answer what I am asked. I have no choice."

  Edevvi wasn't listening. "To throw a fight like that—it's worse than lying. She's betrayed her honor; our honor demands that we cast her out. Now we can't even give her the rites of the dead. Her name will never be sung before the gods, and her spirit will wander homeless until the stars fall, and it's all because of you. You!" She pointed at Karivet.

  "You asked me! I had no choice!"

  Edevvi turned away without speaking. Silently the other Khedathi gathered their animals and gear. One of them caught the bridle of Khehaddi's horse and led it away. Then, without looking back at their fallen leader, they rode off into the morning light.

  Zan, Ychass, and Iobeh set up the tent. No one spoke. Vihena would not leave Khehaddi's body, nor would she let anyone see to her wounded arm. Karivet sat apart from the others, huddled in misery. When Iobeh went to comfort him, he flinched away from her touch. As the silence deepened, Zan approvingly noted Iobeh's intent face. The tension eased away, and finally they slept.

  When the camp roused, late in the afternoon, Zan found that Vihena had allowed Iobeh to wash and dress her wound. As Ychass and Zan cooked supper, Remarr tuned his harp and began to sing. It took Zan several minutes to realize he was singing about Khehaddi. The form of the song and much of the language seemed strangely archaic to her, and she was puzzled until Ychass explained. It's the song for the dead, she informed Zan. Remarr is giving Khehaddi's name to the gods.

  As the last note of the song died into stillness, Vihena began to speak. "She was more than sister to me, more than mother. She accepted me; she didn't mock my interest as the passing fancy of a foolish Vematheh hoyden. She taught me, and she made the others accept me, too. She was a hundred times my master at the sword—I could never have beaten her, except that she let me. And I never once suspected it was she. She fought like Edevvi. Edevvi does everything impulsively; it is not a trait that improves her swordplay, though she is competent. Khehaddi gave me the opening Edevvi might have, and I took it, because I was weakening. I killed her. And all the time I thought she was Edevvi—as she meant me to. I killed her, and I would have died myself before I spilled Khehaddi's blood." Her voice broke.

  For a moment no one spoke, then Ychass lifted her head. "Sh
e knew that," the shapeshifter said quietly, "and she felt the same way about you. Grieve for her, Vihena, but do not feel guilt. What she did, she did for you. It is a gift."

  "But I don't want it, not at that cost. Ychass, she forfeited her honor."

  "No." It was Remarr who spoke. "No, Vihena, she did not. She forfeited her honor when she sold it to the City. With what she did for you, she took it back." He raised one empty hand, closed it into a fist, and drew it toward himself.

  Vihena was silent for a moment, then she met his eyes. "And so you gave her name to the gods."

  Remarr held her gaze. "I did. And in the morning I will help you bury her. She was a brave woman, one who followed her heart in what was important."

  Vihena nodded, then managed a weak smile. "For one who claims no honor of his own, you understand a great deal, Minstrel Remarr, and I thank you."

  After that they lapsed into silence, but the tension was gone. They ate their meal, banked the fire, and set out for Windsmeet to confront the god.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The shuttle hissed through the warp. Eikoheh impatiently pushed back a wayward strand of hair and sighed.

  "Tired?" Ohmiden asked.

  "I have never been more weary, but we're nearly at the end. This night's work should allow me to bring the pattern full circle. I can't say I'll be sorry to lay my shuttle down."

  Ohmiden nodded. He saw how worn the weaver's face was.

  "Though truthfully, I won't rest easy until I hear their footsteps on the stoop and see their faces. I—" Suddenly her face drained of color. "No!" she gasped. The shuttle struggled in her hands like a live thing, and she fought with it while the sweat beaded on her brow. Ohmiden watched helplessly, fearful of breaking the weaver's fragile control.

  "Dear gods!" she cried out. "I'm losing it. Quick, Ohmiden—gray! I need the gray wool."