Colors in the Dreamweaver's Loom

by Beth Hilgartner

  "I see no reason to show you any more favor than I have already. We have not cut you to pieces. Be thankful and go."

  "At least tell me what clan this is so that I may report to my overlord."

  Emirri's tone was full of contempt. "Khesst," she said curtly.

  Zan felt the startled reaction of the spokeswoman. That's the coward's clan; they wouldn't shelter him. Shohandeh turned and walked back to her mount. A moment later the patrol wheeled their animals and went back the way they had come.

  Emirri shook her head, then turned to Zan. "What did you steal, Stranger, that the Tame Dogs come nosing into the dry lands after you?"

  "We did not steal anything, clan leader. But the City people do not want us to ask our boon of the gods."

  Emirri's dark eyes were inscrutable, but her thoughts were clear. How can I trust them not to bring dishonor on us? "Stranger," she said warningly, "even Tame Khedathi do not lie."

  "No, but surely they can be misled. The only thing we can be said to have taken from the City that was not given to us is your son, and we only took him because he was unable, at the time, to bring himself."

  Emirri's eyes narrowed. "My son?"

  Zan felt a sick uneasiness. She knew she had heard Emirri call Remarr "son" in her thoughts, but she couldn't remember whether anyone had said it aloud. She hesitated for a moment, then decided to brazen it out. "Am I mistaken, then? Remarr is not your son?"

  The clan leader's voice was soft, full of suspicion. "He is, Stranger, but it occurs to me to wonder how you know."

  "He told me once," Zan replied carefully, "that his mother had always insisted he was a changeling. When you called him that, it seemed a logical conclusion to reach."

  Emirri was silent for a long moment. Her thoughts were agitated, and none of it made any sense to Zan. Finally she spoke. "And you are not a thief."

  "I am not."

  "Stranger, I do not own him as my son, nor do I speak his name."

  Zan saw Remarr in her mind's eye, standing apart and lonely. "You are hard," she said quietly.

  "There is no room for softness in the dry lands," Emirri retorted grimly. "Why do you think I cast him out?" She turned abruptly and walked away.

  Zan stared after her for a moment, her lips pressed tightly together. Then she sighed. Beside her, Fiorreh laid her hand on Zan's arm. "Do not judge the clan leader too harshly, Stranger. Our ways are not yours. And she was so disappointed in him." The storyteller gestured toward Remarr, who was standing yards away from anyone else. "His father died a month before he was born. Emirri truly loved Tekharr, and she was deeply grieved at his death. She was pleased to have borne a son, for she believed he would live out the promise Tekharr had shown. She told us all her son would be the best warrior, the greatest clan leader. We got very tired of hearing it, but we listened because we felt pity for her grief. Later, when everyone could see how inept he was, how the blades would not answer him, how he could not master the Discipline, she remembered her boasting and was humiliated. She never forgave herself." The old woman spread her hands. "Or him."

  "It hardly seems fair," Zan remarked.

  "None of it is fair," Fiorreh said with vehemence. "It is not fair that Tekharr died before he saw the face of his son. It is not fair that Emirri was left behind to raise him. It is not fair that she never found any other man to love, and that she will leave the clan without a child of her line. And it is not fair that he has returned to remind her of old hurts. None of it is fair, Stranger. The gods do not care about fairness!"

  "Then why are we going to Windsmeet to ask the gods to prevent an injustice?"

  The old woman tipped her head to one side and regarded Zan with bright, dark eyes. "What else can you do, Stranger?"

  As Zan watched the old woman walk off, she felt Ychass's presence in her mind. Doubts?

  Yes, Zan replied, quickly filling the shapeshifter in on her conversation with the storyteller.

  Gods are fickle and merciless, 'Tsan. It is a sad fact. But we have nothing else on which to put our hopes. This whole venture has been hopeless from the start, but that didn't stop you from beginning. Don't let it trouble you now.

  FIFTEEN

  Efiran Moirre was startled when he saw Captain Khehaddi's sun-darkened face. He hailed her. "I didn't expect to see you here—I thought you were on patrol."

  She nodded. "We got in early this morning. Are you well? How is Vihena?"

  Efiran's heart froze. "Wasn't she with your patrol?" The words choked him.

  The captain's eyes narrowed with concern. "Indeed, no. Did—did you think she was?"

  He nodded, his voice failing him utterly.

  "You haven't seen her in the whole time the patrol was out of the City?"

  He nodded again.

  "Merciless gods!" the Khedatheh breathed. "Efiran, where could she be?"

  "She must have gone with them."

  "Gone with whom?"

  He looked at her nervously. "With the Stranger, and the Orathi—to Windsmeet."

  Khehaddi' s face went still. She remembered some of the garbled talk of the barracks: thieves, an outcast, something stolen from Hobann. And now, Vihena involved. She would have to get to the bottom of this. She turned on her heel and set off toward the barracks in a long-legged lope. She didn't even hear Efiran's anxious query behind her.

  She reached the barracks as another dusty patrol rode up. It was Shohandeh's; they looked tired. Khehaddi listened from the edges of the group that had gathered to welcome them. Belerann stood in the center, his face grave as he listened to Shohandeh.

  "—didn't find any sign of them. Most of the clans were helpful, and even unveiled. Khesst wouldn't, but that didn't surprise me—they have a reputation for being standoffish. But I'm not worried about them. They are the minstrel's clan. They'd never shelter him."

  "You did well," Belerann said quietly. "Go rest while I speak to Hobann and the Lord to see what plan they have now."

  "The Orathi must be dead," another Khedathen volunteered. "That storm—Edevvi lost two seasoned veterans in it. A group of wetlanders couldn't have survived."

  Argument and speculation began as Belerann moved off. Khehaddi intercepted him as he left the other Khedathi behind. "A word," she said softly.

  He raised his eyebrows and nodded.

  "What was it that Hobann said they stole from him?"

  His brows knit. "I don't believe he said—some merchant's thing."

  "Worth Khedathi lives?"

  He shrugged. "What of theirs is, besides the rain?"

  "Belerann, Vihena Moirre is with them."

  He drew a sharp breath, then let it out slowly. "Not thieves, then. Khehaddi, don't ask any more questions."

  "How can I be silent? Hobann is lying to us. There is no honor in hiding from the truth."

  "What can it matter now? Surely they are dead."

  "You don't believe that," she retorted, "or you would not be trying to silence me. If they are not thieves, Belerann, we cannot go on hunting them. Honor forbids—"

  The Khedathen gripped her arm and shook it. "Softly! You have not thought it through." His tone gentled to persuasion. "Khehaddi, think: you have, what, another five years of active service? Then what? Will you go back to clan Ontarr in the dry lands?" She gave a baffled choke of protest as he hurried on. "No, of course not. You will settle on a farm, with your sons. But wait, think: what if there are no lands? If the gods grant these meddling children their boon, Khehaddi, where will you go? What will you do? And in any case, it is not as though we will harm the Orathi when we clear the forests."

  For an instant she stared at him in astonishment. Then her lips twisted as she hissed, "Is honor dead? You gave your word!"

  "I promised them we would wait. I never said we would not interfere."

  Bitterness seeped into her expression, staining her tone. "You have lived here too long, Belerann—you are thinking like a merchant. What you propose is murder. Though we may not do the deed, their blood will be
on our hands."

  "We swore oaths to the Vemathi to protect their interests. Surely that is all we are doing."

  "It is not, and you know it!"

  Belerann was silent for a long time, staring into the challenge in Khehaddi's eyes. Tension flickered between them like fire. Finally he made the gesture conceding a touch, but he did not release her gaze. "You speak the bitter truth, Khehaddi—what we are doing is not honorable. Nonetheless, the guidance of our people is in my hands, and I will not change our course. You have the right to challenge me, if you choose."

  A spasm of pain crossed her features; he spoke of battle to the death, and they had been friends a long time. "Why?" she demanded, the cry reft from her silence.

  His gaze turned inward for a moment, as though he were rehearsing the twists and turns of his decision. When he spoke, his voice was distant, but touched with sadness. "I have grown accustomed to rain."

  His words sparked a vivid memory of the rain-washed City, rich with the fresh green scent of spring, gleaming against the pink and gold sunset. With a pang, Khehaddi realized the depth of the sacrifice her honor asked. She hesitated, and in that instant realized that she couldn't do it. If she challenged him, she would lose, for her heart was torn, and Belerann was good enough to demand her total concentration. She railed inwardly at her weakness, but against her will, her gaze dropped. "As have I," she whispered, "gods curse it." She looked up then, suddenly, the flash of resolution back in her eyes. "But I will not have Vihena Moirre harmed."

  For an instant he looked doubtful. He opened his mouth to argue with her, but he thought better of it and merely shook his head slightly. "I will send you with the company that goes to Windsmeet, then, to see that she is not."

  ***

  Travel with clan Khesst was faster than they could have managed on their own—and more comfortable. Each day, late in the afternoon, they would break camp, load the horses, and set out. They set a rapid pace to the next spring, made camp, and slept out the rest of the night. The clan arose early in the morning, and rested again when the sun was at its zenith. Once she got used to the odd hours, Zan enjoyed the travel. Riding was not as exhausting as walking, so she found she needed less sleep. The days passed quickly as the miles spun away under the horses' hooves.

  Toward the end of the second week, a dawn came when they could see Windsmeet's sand-scoured bulk hunched against the horizon. It was a hill of dark stone, its top scraped flat by the merciless storms. It looked unnatural, lacking even a shadow of vegetation, and so much darker than the surrounding sand.

  As Zan stood looking at it, Vihena came to summon her to Emirri's tent for a council. It did not improve Zan 's state of mind to find that of the foreigners, only she and Vihena were present.

  "We have brought you as far as the clan as a whole may go," Emirri told them. "There is a spring, a small one, nearer to Windsmeet, but there is not enough water there for all my people and our animals. I will give you horses if you wish it, but . . ." She shrugged. "It is a small spring, and they drink a great deal. It will not take you a night's travel, even on foot, to reach the spring, and from there it is perhaps two hours to the top of Windsmeet."

  Zan nodded.

  "We will wait for you—three days. By then the gods will have answered, if they are going to. If you return to us, we will guide you out of the desert. If you stay longer than three days—" she made a gesture with one hand— "you are on your own. Is that understood?"

  "It is, and it is most generous of you, Emirri," Zan replied. "I do not think we will require horses. We will set out tonight, if you think it advisable."

  "None of this venture is advisable, Stranger, if you ask me. I think it is no more foolish for you to start tonight than for you to wait, however. My people are uneasy in the shadow of Windsmeet."

  "I thank you, foster mother, for your aid," Vihena said. "Without your help we would at best still be wandering the dry lands leagues from here, and at worst we would be dead, or under guard in the City."

  "It was my kin duty," Emirri said.

  Vihena bowed her head in acknowledgment, but Zan heard the underlying thought, that kin duty did not usually include sheltering outcasts and foreigners. Zan also murmured her thanks as Emirri dismissed them. Once outside, she went in search of the others, while Vihena went off with her friends.

  Remarr proved the most elusive of Zan's companions, but she finally ran him to earth in the tent they shared. He had his harp in his hands but was not playing. When she came in, he laid it aside and looked up at her.

  "Emirri thinks we should set out tonight," she told him. "The clan will wait three days for us. Remarr, you must know some stories—what usually happens to people who ask boons of the gods?"

  He shrugged. "There's no 'usually,' 'Tsan. All the stories are different."

  She sat down on the floor of the tent. "I bet they don't go home and live happily ever after, though."

  "No. But it's too late to worry about that, surely?"

  She sighed and nodded. "But Remarr, can't you tell me what we might expect?"

  He spread his hands. "Expect the unexpected. 'Tsan, it all depends on which of the gods answers—if in fact any does."

  "So what are the choices? The only god I've heard named is the Trickster. There must be others."

  "Indeed, yes. There are many, many of them: the Weaver, the Mother, the Namegiver, the Warrior, the Dreamer, the Harvester—those are a few only. If I had to choose, I'd want the Weaver, or possibly the Dreamer. According to the tales, they are two of the gentler ones."

  "Is it random, the selection of the god?" she pursued.

  He shrugged eloquently. "All this speculation is fruitless, unless it serves to reassure your mind, 'Tsan. To tell you the truth, I don't believe we'll even know which god answers us, unless we are told."

  That rocked Zan backwards. She blinked at him in surprise. "You mean you won't recognize them? But they are your gods! Don't you have pictures of them or something in your—" She stopped dead, at a loss. She had never heard a word for temple.

  Remarr cocked his head at her. "In the land of your birth, then, do you have portraits of your gods?"

  "No," she protested, exasperated. "But my God doesn't appear in a specific place to answer questions, either."

  "You have only one god? Your land must be very strange." She laughed suddenly as she tried to imagine Remarr and the others fitting in in Manhattan. "I believe you would find it so," she agreed.

  "Do you have a City?"

  "Oh, there are many cities, and they are large, much larger than your City. They are full of tall, tall towers, and roads, and people, and they are dirtier than the City and far more crowded. They can be dangerous, especially at night."

  "Why? Are there wild beasts?"

  She smiled ruefully. "In a sense. There are some people who will steal from you, and a very few who seem to love violence for its own sake."

  "Do they scorn honor? Or do they not understand it?"

  Zan was silent, frowning as she pondered that. "I think," she said at last, "that most people like to think they're honorable, but they are not always willing to take the risks that acting honorably requires."

  "That sounds like hypocrisy."

  "Yes, and it is fueled by greed and self-interest. But it's not all bad, Remarr—there are good things, too." She paused briefly, trying to cast her description in terms he would understand. "There are places where precious and beautiful things are kept so that many people can see them, and great centers of learning where many people go to study. There are vast markets, where one can buy almost anything. There are places you can go to hear music, and places you can go to see strange animals. It is easy to travel quickly from one region to another, and there are ways to talk with people who are far away." She shook her head, laughed. "This is hard; I can't explain."

  "Do you miss it?"

  She was silent for a moment, then she shook her head. "I don't think I do. There's nothing to draw me back there, Remarr
. My father is dead; I have no family. I've never had friends before—at least, not ones like you and the others. There are things that I miss" (like books, she thought to herself), "but on the whole, I am content here." As she looked at his intent face, a sudden suspicion kindled in her mind and she narrowed her eyes at him. "Of course," she added, "I would be more content if I knew what was going to happen tonight."

  He looked up at her, startled, then smiled and made a slight conceding gesture in her direction. "It couldn't last. It's true, I was trying to divert your attention, 'Tsan, but what you were telling me is fascinating. I would very much enjoy hearing more about your land. Perhaps one day you could tell me some of the tales of your people."

  She didn't feel up to explaining about books and libraries, so she merely nodded. Remarr stowed his harp in its case and rose, slinging the strap over his shoulder. As he started for the opening, she called his name and he paused, looking back at her curiously. "Thank you," she said.

  He smiled, and in reply offered her an elaborately graceful court bow. Then he was gone. She sighed deeply, then smiled to herself as she realized that though her worry was still there, it no longer gnawed at her peace of mind quite so hungrily.

  SIXTEEN

  The rest of the journey to Windsmeet was uneventful. They arrived at the foot of the hill a little before moonrise. To Zan's surprise, there was a track that led them in generous switchbacks to the crest of Windsmeet. As they came to the top of the hill, the moon cleared the horizon, so that each of them was silhouetted against its pale disk. In their desert robes they looked peculiarly similar; it gave Zan an uneasy feeling.

  "Now what do we do?" she asked to cover her nervousness. To her annoyance, her voice came out as a whisper.

  "I suppose we call on the gods for justice," Remarr whispered back. "Shall I do it?"

  "No," Karivet said quickly. "I will. It is on behalf of my people that we have come." The others acquiesced, but Iobeh went to his side and took his hand. Karivet straightened his shoulders and raised his voice. "Gods! Gods, hear me. We have come, representatives of every kindred, to ask your aid. Hear us. Answer us."