The Feast of the Trickster

by Beth Hilgartner

  "It depends upon what sort of condition I'm in by the time you're ready to sell," he replied.

  She struck him across the face. "He's insolent," she commented to Efiran. "Are you sure you want him?"

  "Name your price, Voice; I have said as much already."

  "And I have said I'm not selling."

  Merivatt said, "He's god-touched. You are playing with fire, Edevvi. Take the man's money but let the Singer go."

  "God-touched. Superstitious nonsense! The gods have no interest in this sniveling weakling."

  "But they do," Remarr said softly. "The Trickster threw me to you, Edevvi, like a bone to a dog; if she wants you to have me, no doubt others would thwart her. You think me cowardly; but I am desert born—and not such a tyro as to be parted from my mount when we were already clean away."

  "So it takes the hand of a god to part you from your horse?" she mocked.

  "Indeed not. I am merely telling you that it was a god's action that parted me from this horse, this night."

  "You are lying."

  "I wouldn't lie to the Trickster herself—much less you. I have my honor, even if I can't wield a sword to prove it."

  "You make a mockery of honor!" Her lips curled as she strove to bridle her rage. "The gods are mere stories for wayward children, yet you would tell me that you have seen the Trickster. What sort of fool do you take me for?"

  "With every word you speak I take you for a greater one. The gods are no children's tale and you do ill to mock them."

  "Mock them?" Her laughter rang wildly. "I have barely begun to mock them." She drew her knife. "Merivatt called you god-touched." She placed the point of her dagger beside his eye; with a swift, downward stroke, she scored a bloody line from temple to jaw. "I shall play the Namegiver and name you Dagger-Touched." She slit the lacings of his shirt one by one, then lodged the dagger's point in the hollow of his throat. Remarr swallowed convulsively. She laughed. "I name you Coward, and Liar." The blade bit. Behind her, the door crashed open; a gust of wind extinguished the lamps. Shadows leaped away from the sullen glow of the hearth.

  A cloaked figure strode into the room. "Light," a woman's voice said. The lamps rekindled. The Namegiver faced Edevvi, the lamplight striking fiery glints in her unbound hair. "The peril in giving names comes when they are not apt. One cannot name a brave man Coward, nor an honest one Liar in my name—even in jest." She drew Remarr gently out of Edevvi's reach. Her finger traced the wound on his face. "DaggerTouched, yes," she said sadly. "And God-Touched." Her gaze swept to Efiran and Rakhela, "And indeed Dream-Warned." Then, her eyes imprisoned Edevvi's. "You killed a good man to make a different name for yourself. But the Voice must speak with wisdom, with justice, with compassion. You have not learned those lessons; until you do, I name you Silence." She turned to the others. "You must choose another Voice to speak for your people, for Silence is mute."

  Edevvi's mouth worked, her face grew red, then pale; but she made no sound. She snatched up her tankard and hammered it on the table; and though she sloshed cider on herself and on Efiran's gold, the pounding gesture was noiseless.

  "Silence," Efiran breathed. "Keep the gold. It has served me well." He went out, to make his way to his island stronghold before the storm, brewed by the night's events, broke.

  As Remarr watched Efiran go, he felt the Namegiver's eyes on him; he returned her gaze warily.

  "Will you come with me, Minstrel, that I may shorten your journey?" At his nod, she reached a hand toward him. His bonds fell away. "Take my hand." When his cold hand closed on her warm, strong one, god and Minstrel vanished into a swirl of wind and mist.

  ***

  The sun was swathed in an early fog when Iobeh rose to tend her goats. After she finished the milking, she turned them out to graze in the high meadow above the stone house she and her twin, Karivet, had built.

  The goats were strays or castoffs from the village herds. Iobeh had found the first over a year ago, injured and starving. She had soothed the creature, fed her, and tended her hurts. When the goat was well, Iobeh had taken her into the village to find her owner—but no one would claim her. The other goats had come in similar fashion. Many other animals came to Iobeh as well: an orphan deer; an otter with a broken leg; even a mountain cat, once, with an abscessed wound; and others. But the goats stayed, while the wildlings returned to the forest.

  Iobeh took the pan of milk back to the house. Karivet was still sleeping—his anxious dreams worried her peace like distant thunder. Perhaps if she made enticing breakfast smells he would waken.

  By the time Iobeh had warmed the leftover kemess, Karivet had risen. He looked very much like her: small and delicate, with curly dark hair and wide brown eyes. But this morning, he was haggard; he appeared older than his fourteen years.

  What is it? Iobeh signed, using the hand-language she and her twin shared.

  He shrugged. "There are portents in the wind. The Weaver's at the Loom, but I cannot guess what pattern he is weaving." He gave her an apologetic look. "You could Ask me."

  Do you want me to? she signed.

  "I think it may be important that we know."

  She hid her reluctance. She hated to use the voice that had been the gift of the Trickster. Iobeh had been born mute, a difficulty she had overcome with her hand-language—and in other ways. She "heard" the feelings of others, and could project her own when she chose. This ability gave her skill with animals, but it also made her unwilling to speak. The voice the Trickster's malice had given her was an ugly croak; because of her empathic gifts, she knew it was painful to others. Steeling herself, she took Karivet's hand and met his eyes. "What troubles your dreams?" she croaked.

  Karivet answered in the flat voice in which he prophesied. "One comes; two follow; three guide."

  "Who comes?"

  "The Minstrel Remarr."

  Iobeh's eyes widened. Remarr! But her hand still gripped Karivet's and her eyes held his. She Asked again. "Who follows?"

  "The Swordswoman Vihena and the Shapeshifter Ychass."

  "Who guides?" she Asked; her croaking voice quavered.

  "Weaver, Dreamer, and Namegiver."

  Her free hand clenched. "To what end?"

  "To reclaim 'Tsan, and halt Fate's unraveling."

  Iobeh dropped his hand. Karivet! she signed. What can this mean? I don't know whether to be horrified or delighted.

  "Nor do I. Do you suppose they want us to look for her?"

  Why else would they send 'Tsan's companions here?

  "Why else, indeed. Well, Iobeh, what do you think? Should we look for her?"

  Iobeh felt tears near the surface. She gripped her twin's hand, caught his eyes, and Asked, "Is 'Tsan happy where she is?"

  "She is beset by loneliness and stalked by madness."

  Then of course we must go after her, Iobeh signed. We owe her too much to let her suffer.

  Further discussion was cut short by a knock. Karivet smiled at Iobeh. "Come in, Remarr," he called.

  Remarr looked in, smiling wryly. "I should know better than to try to surprise a prophet."

  Before he had finished speaking, the twins had flung themselves into his arms. There was a great deal of hugging and back-pounding; Iobeh's were not the only damp eyes.

  "Have you eaten?" Karivet asked. "There is kemess."

  Your face! What happened to your face? Iobeh signed.

  Bitterness twisted his lips. "Namegiver said I was god-touched; they need to trim their claws. But let me tell you the whole." When he had finished, he said, "I don't suppose you can explain what this is all about?"

  "I think we will be sent to rescue 'Tsan," Karivet replied.

  "Rescue 'Tsan?" He laughed. "I can't imagine her as a damsel in distress."

  She may be different in her own world, Iobeh signed. When she first came to us, she was very unsure of herself.

  "She would not believe she was in any way special," Karivet recalled, his eyes growing distant. "I remember her saying that she was a very ordinary
person, and if the gods had chosen her, they had made a bad mistake."

  Remarr was silent. He, too, could remember that time. "I do not think I shall like a world that can change 'Tsan so much that she needs rescuing."

  But you will help?

  He tousled Iobeh's hair. "Yes. I owe her that—besides," he added sourly, "I'm rather deeply in the Namegiver's debt. Do we know when Vihena and Ychass will arrive?"

  Karivet shook his head. "You could Ask me."

  "Do you mind?" Remarr pressed, remembering how reluctant Karivet was to use his prophetic gift; there had been too many times when the question had been the wrong one, or the truth too brutal. Karivet gave his hand to the minstrel. Remarr met his eyes. "When will Vihena and Ychass arrive?"

  "They will come with the dusk."

  He released Karivet's hand. "Good. I could sleep for a week, but all day will do for a start."

  Let me tend your hurts first, Iobeh signed; she had already heated a bowl of water and herbs. When Remarr finally fell asleep in their loft, his wounds and bruises hardly ached at all.

  ***

  The Weaver and the Dreamer both breathed sighs of relief. That had been hard work; Edevvi did not respond predictably to the guidance of the Loom. It had been pure luck that had made her choose to mock the Namegiver—who had been waiting for an excuse to intervene.

  The Dreamer smiled. “This gives me new respect for you. I never thought choosing the Loom's pattern could be so hard."

  The Weaver sighed. "Only when you care about the outcome. If the threads are merely colors, you can lose a shade of blue and not miss it; but none of 'Tsan's companions are mere threads to me. The Mother would say that I've lost my objectivity."

  "I would say," the Namegiver said as she stepped from the shadows, "that you have engaged your heart."

  "But is that good or bad?" the Weaver asked.

  "Both," she replied, "and neither."

  The Dreamer chuckled and laid a hand on the Weaver's shoulder. "That's our sister's way of saying you'll have to wait and see. I must go. If you have need of me, call."

  "I will, Irenden," the Weaver promised. When the Dreamer was gone, he turned to the Namegiver. "Thank you. I think Edevvi would have killed the minstrel if not for you."

  She shrugged. "Perhaps. In any case, it pleased me to bind silence onto that rash hothead. Belerann was a good man."

  "Engaging your heart isn't new to you, is it?"

  "No." The Namegiver's smile was enigmatic. "El, I've been thinking: should we not let your Wanderer know what's afoot? The three of us ought to be able to reach across the void—at least with a dream. "

  "Yes. You're right—but not now. I'm spent. If we drew—resistance—I'm not fit to face it. But later—I'll summon you."

  With a gesture, the Namegiver wrapped herself in wind and mist. Her voice remained, after she had gone. "Rest, El. You're a wraith."

  Elgonar smiled as he rose and stretched. Leave it to Yschadeh to have the last word.

  FIVE

  Ychass and Vihena arrived at dusk, but not alone. They brought the old man, Ohmiden, and the Dreamweaver, Eikoheh. There was quite a reunion in Karivet and Iobeh's cottage, with much laughter and embracing.

  While they ate, they shared their news. Ohmiden related the dream that had sent Ychass into the desert to bring Vihena out. Remarr's tale caused a stir; it was alarming that the Trickster and the Namegiver had both touched his life in a single night.

  "It worries me that the gods are moving in this so clearly," Remarr said. "I do not trust the Trickster and though I do not think the Weaver or the Namegiver wish us ill, they are gods, and their touch is not over-gentle."

  "No," Karivet agreed. "But there is 'Tsan to think of. She is beset by loneliness and stalked by madness. Whatever the gods' motivation, the thought of 'Tsan unhappy is enough to drive me to seek her."

  "We all feel that way," Ychass said. "And the gods know it—or have guessed as much. The questions are: what will this quest require of us; what aid—or hindrance—will the gods give us; and what will become of us all at the end of it?"

  "Those are questions we cannot answer," Vihena said. "I am a woman of action; I want to know what we should do. Do we wait here or do we journey to Windsmeet to ask the gods?"

  "I think," Eikoheh said, "that I should string my loom for a Fate and cast the Weaver's color in the pattern. Then he can tell us what is afoot."

  "But you must not weave a Fate for us, Eikoheh," Karivet protested. "It is dangerous for you, and tiring—"

  "And I am old," she interrupted him. "Karivet, I am old; I don't hear as well as I did, nor move so nimbly. But my heart loves as strongly as yours, and my courage is undiminished. I cannot go with you, for I am bound to the Forest and my loom. But I can weave for you. You are all willing to die for 'Tsan—I can see it in your faces. So am I. Further, I am not willing to live if you fail because I withheld my aid."

  "You always were an outspoken harpy," Ohmiden told her fondly.

  "And you, my sweet Ohmiden, have the winning ways of a skunk; but I'll give you this: you can cook."

  Iobeh beamed. It is wonderful to be together again.

  Yes. Ychass's thought-voice spoke in each of their minds. But we won't truly be gathered until 'Tsan is with us, too.

  ***

  It was easy, the three gods found, to touch 'Tsan's mind. Even across the void, her strong presence shone like a torch. The Dreamer left a dream in her mind: a powerful dream of her friends, of rescue, of the need the gods had for her. The Weaver hoped it would wake her but she slept on. And the gods could not see the tears that wet her pillow.

  ***

  Alexandra Scarsdale woke to the beastly shrilling of her alarm clock. She rolled out of bed. Usually, she woke long before the clock rang. Now if she wanted breakfast, she would have to hurry.

  As she dressed, she tried to occupy her mind with daily matters: her exams, her two research papers; if she spent the day in the library, perhaps she could avoid worrying about that dream. But the images surfaced—beyond her power to suppress. The dream worried her; the several months after her father's death, three and a half years ago, were a gap in her memory. She knew she had been with some cult—but she could remember no details of that experience. Instead, the hole in her memory was filled with impossible things: shapeshifters, walking gods, friends dearer than life itself; crazy delusions. Why couldn't she remember something—anything!—from her time with the cult? Why did the people of the world she had invented in her grief seem so much more real than the students and professors? And why, why, WHY did she have to dream about them?

  She raked the comb through her red hair. She had cut her impossible hair short, so that it clung severely to her skull. The style emphasized the strong bones of her face and the sharpness of her jawline. She would never be pretty, but she could be striking. Now, she just looked thin, shorn, and desperate.

  She was the last one through the breakfast line; they were out of eggs. She made do with oatmeal, then selected an empty table beneath one of the huge windows. Dunster House had one of the nicest dining halls at Harvard, but she didn't bother to admire it. Instead, she propped a book open in front of her for a screen against the outside world. It worked this morning, as it had for the past three years; no one tried to join her. Even a dedicated extrovert was daunted by the shell she used to hide the troubled young woman inside.

  ***

  It was nearly dusk before Eikoheh was ready to string the Weaver's color on her loom. The five companions crowded around as the old woman picked up the shuttle wound with the Weaver's shimmering gray thread. Ohmiden hovered in the background.

  The gasp of wonder from the watchers drew the old man's attention. Where the Weaver's silvery gray left the shuttle and entered the pattern, he could see how it became three strands: a deep, iridescent blue and a thread of clear gold wound themselves into the pattern with the Weaver's color.

  "More company than planned," Eikoheh remarked. "The Weaver is bring
ing the Dreamer and the Namegiver with him."

  A knock sounded. Eikoheh went to the door while the companions hovered. The Weaver came in first, looking much as he had when they had first seen him, three years ago, in his bower in the far mountains. He was followed closely by the Namegiver and the Dreamer. Except for their red hair, the three did not look much alike. The Dreamer's eyes were a blue so dark it was nearly black, and his skin was more golden than the Weaver's. The Namegiver was taller than her brothers, and thinner; her eyes were very pale gray, like water over stones: shapeshifter's eyes.

  "Greetings," the old woman bade the gods. "I can't say we expected all of you, but you are welcome nonetheless. Will you eat with us—or don't you eat mortal food?"

  The Weaver answered for them. "We are grateful for your summons, and more than pleased to accept your hospitality."

  Eikoheh ushered them to piles of skins and cushions before the hearth. "Sit, and eat. We have much to discuss."

  Over the meal, the gods explained the situation and outlined the task they had in mind for the Five: go to 'Tsan's world and bring her back.

  "You make it sound simple," Remarr commented, "but surely it will be harder than that?"

  "We know nothing of the world from which 'Tsan came," the Dreamer answered. "There will doubtless be perils. You are intrepid and resourceful; you have overcome impossible odds before. We are laying all our hopes upon your shoulders, but I know of no others to whom I would rather entrust the very fate of our world."

  "I find such confidence frightening," Ychass said. "It was 'Tsan who knit us together; I don't know how we will manage without her."

  "You may not have to manage without her," the Namegiver said. "We have touched 'Tsan's mind across the void and left a dream there. Once you arrive in her world, Ychass, you may be able to reach her mind. In any case, we will continue to send messages: dreams, and perhaps even more. So before you have been long in her world, she will know of your presence."

  "It is only fair to warn you," the Weaver said, "that the Trickster may be able to act directly against you. The bonds that hold her in check are strained; I don't know how far they will stretch. She may follow you across the void—or failing that, exert some influence to hinder you."