"She's in room six-twelve."
Brigid sent Ychass an image of the numeral 612, and a hint that it would probably be near or on the door. Then, Ychass left the waiting area; she shifted to fly-shape, and made her way past the guardian into the maze of corridors beyond.
It took longer than Ychass had expected to find the room with the proper rune. Luck was with her; the door was open. The shapeshifter flitted inside, to find 'Tsan, pale and terribly vulnerable, asleep. Ychass took her own form, then, very gently, shook the young woman awake. For an instant, there was welcome and joy on Alexandra's face. "Ychass," she said, both aloud and inwardly. Then fear clouded her gaze, and on its heels, rage. She sat up, pointing a shaking finger at the shapeshifter.
"Get away!" she cried. "You can't be here! You're not real!"
"But I am here," Ychass said, gripping 'Tsan's hand. "And I am real; you know it! 'Tsan, you named me!"
"Go away!" Alexandra screamed, her voice spiraling upward. "I don't know you! I never named you! You're not real!! I'M NOT 'TSAN!!!"
The sound of running feet recalled Ychass to her situation. Instinctively, she shifted—but not to a fly. When Dr. Marchbanks arrived with two orderlies, his patient, her face contorted with terror and rage, was flinging all the movable objects within reach at a cowering gray cat. As the orderlies moved to restrain her, the doctor shut the door. Ychass was trapped in the room.
"Alexandra. Alexandra," he soothed. "It's all right. It's just a cat; nothing to be afraid of. We'll take it out."
At his words, Alexandra's terror eased. The doctor indicated that the orderlies release her. Alexandra buried her head beneath the pillow. Isaac stared down at her in silence.
"I'm taking the cat away, Alexandra. If you want to talk, ring for a nurse and I'll come." There was no response.
Ychass crouched, her ears flat to her skull and her eyes shut tight, the picture of feline distress. She allowed Marchbanks to gather her up but as soon as they were in the corridor, she became a writhing, spitting, scratching beast. They struggled together, the doctor trying hard not to hurt what he thought was a terrified cat. Ychass, outrage blazing in her silver eyes, bit the man. He dropped her. She streaked away, seeking the solitude to shift her shape again and escape.
The orderlies charged after her. Isaac stared at his bleeding, throbbing hand, but saw in his mind's eye the cat's intelligent, silvery eyes. According to Alexandra, shapeshifters could not change the color of their eyes. No wonder, he tried to tell himself, she had been unhinged by the stray cat. He shivered with a mixture of awe and dread.
The orderlies returned. "I can't imagine how it got away," one of them said. "It's as though it vanished into thin air."
The other young man nodded. "We were hoping to spare you the rabies shots."
Isaac shrugged. "You did your best, I'm sure. How do you suppose it got in here in the first place?"
The first orderly smiled crookedly. "The same way it got out."
Vihena and Brigid knew something was amiss. Ychass had sent them a one-word warning, Trouble, before she eluded her pursuers. Thus, the two who waited were prepared for the sight of a doctor, flanked by orderlies, his blood shockingly red on the white of his coat.
"Oh, Doctor," the receptionist began before she took in the blood. "Good heavens!"
"It looks worse than it is—I hope," he told her with a strained smile. "I'm off to Emergency."
"These young women want to know whether Alexandra Scarsdale can have visitors?"
"No!" He surprised even himself with the sharpness of his denial. "If you tell me your names," he added more gently, "I'll let her know you were inquiring after her."
"I am Vihena Khesst and my friend is Brigid Chandler," Vihena replied. "Please tell her we are very concerned."
"Vihena?" the doctor repeated, his face going blank with surprise. "Vihena Khesst." Not a question: recognition.
"And Brigid Chandler," Brigid added brightly, hoping to divert him. "Doctor, you're bleeding—we don't want to detain you."
"No." His expression grew distant. "No." The orderlies began herding him along. "Wait!" he called, turning back. "I want to talk to you later—when I've gotten cleaned up."
"Fine," Brigid said. "We've got some errands to run; should we think about stopping back around"—she consulted her watch—"three?"
Dr. Marchbanks looked as though he had guessed the falseness of Brigid's suggestion, but the orderlies prevented his arguing. The three disappeared into the elevator; shortly after that, Ychass returned and they made good their escape.
Once back on the street, Brigid towed them to an outdoor cafe. "Now," she said when they were settled, "what happened, Ychass?"
The shapeshifter reported in a cool, uninflected voice. "It is my guess," she added, "that the Trickster has put 'Tsan under a spell. At the start, she knew me—then, fear and anger overrode her mind. To me, it smells of the Trickster."
Vihena nodded, her eyes troubled.
"So how do we go about breaking her free?" Brigid asked, hiding her own doubts in a matter-of-fact approach. "If we kidnapped her, would that help?"
"Kidnapped?" Vihena demanded. "Just how were you planning to do that? From what Ychass tells us, 'Tsan won't be of a mind to cooperate!"
Ychass frowned. "I don't think we three can solve this by ourselves," she said heavily. "We need Iobeh."
"Yes! " Vihena agreed. "She could soothe 'Tsan with her spirit-gift."
Ychass nodded. "And without the rage and terror of the Trickster's spell tearing at her, 'Tsan would know us and listen to the message of the Weaver and the others."
"But how to get Iobeh here?" Vihena mused.
"That is harder than you know," Brigid put in. "That doctor—Marchbanks, wasn't it?—recognized Vihena's name. That means your friend has told him about you." She paused to let the import sink in.
Vihena's brow knit. "Is that a difficulty? Surely it means 'Tsan trusts him enough to make an ally of him."
"Unless I'm much mistaken," Brigid said, "that Dr. Marchbanks is a psychiatrist; someone who tries to heal madness. If Alexandra has told him about you, it's my guess he thinks you are all figments of her imagination."
"'You're not real,'" Ychass quoted, understanding flaring. "'I don't believe in you.' Oh, Brigid! She has let him convince her that we are the dreams of her disordered mind!"
Brigid nodded.
"But we are real. Surely he will have recognized that by now," Vihena said. "And if we are real, then it follows that 'Tsan is not mad."
"I doubt a psychiatrist would be swayed by the coincidence of a name," Brigid replied. "He's much more apt to think Alexandra somehow incorporated real people into her madness—or worse, that we are exploiting some weakness of hers for our own ends."
The others were silent while they pondered Brigid's words. After some time, Vihena raised an eyebrow and murmured, "This is a strange world." Then she fixed Ychass with a keen look. "Would Iobeh have to be in 'Tsan's presence to work her healing magic? You can cast your mind over distance. Can she?"
Ychass considered. "I'm not sure. I know she can affect people if she can see them, but whether she can touch a mind over distance is a question I cannot answer."
"Could you ask her from here?" Brigid queried.
"Yes," Ychass sighed. "But such an undertaking might alert the Trickster to our presence, and thus warned, she might attack. If you think it worth the gamble, I am willing to try."
Vihena spoke first. "Try. If Iobeh can help 'Tsan, we may be able to resolve the whole matter."
Ychass closed her eyes and sent her thought-voice, like a distant trumpet, to Iobeh. Several minutes passed before the shapeshifter opened her eyes. "Iobeh says she cannot touch 'Tsan's heart from such a distance. She would need to be quite close, though not in sight. She has touched 'Tsan from the next room; I showed her the place where we were made to wait, and she thinks she might be able to reach from there."
Vihena suppressed a groan. "So how do we get her he
re?"
"Let me think about that," Brigid put in. "I could always take another 'field trip' next Friday—or actually, two weeks from today. Next week everybody will be at that big dressage show in Wellesley."
Ychass heard Vihena's inner fight with recriminations, none of which showed in her expression. "Where is Wellesley?"
"It isn't too far from Boston. Maybe we can get Iobeh here from there, but"—she forestalled further questions with an upraised hand—"but I want Angel's help with that planning. She's really good at that kind of intrigue, and I'm not. Look, do you think we should head back to Vermont now?"
"But you told the doctor we would come back," Vihena protested.
"Nope. I asked him whether we ought to think about coming back. So we're thinking—and to me, anyway, it doesn't seem like a good thought."
Ychass's thought-voice, rich with amusement, brushed Brigid's mind. It is well you had the foresight to consider Vihena's troublesome honor.
Brigid's lips quirked. I'm a quick learner.
Vihena shrugged. "You are too devious for me, Brigid, but in this case, I think we'd best take your advice." She rose. "Shall we?"
***
Alexandra waited until she was certain she was alone; then she waited even longer. She was trapped in her fear. She knew the cult was after her again; they were trying to drive her into madness. She realized it when they sent the false vision of the shapeshifter. And she knew that Isaac Marchbanks would be unable to protect her: he had seen a cat. If he were truly free of their influence, he would have seen nothing—for nothing was there. Ychass was not real. But Isaac had seen it—not the woman, but the cat. He had seen it; he was touched by them.
Another thought chilled her. Perhaps he was one of them! He was the only person she had told about her delusions. How else would they know how to torment her? It made sense. It made all too much sense.
Betrayal burned through her. She had liked him. She had trusted him! And all the time, he was one of them. Cautiously, she sorted through the things the tutor had brought from her room. There was not much of use: several changes of clothing; a hairbrush; a toothbrush and paste; a stick of deodorant; her wallet with thirty dollars and her all-important bank machine card. No weapons; no talisman that would protect her; several useless books. She carefully packed her battered bookbag, adding an apple and two cookies saved from lunch. Then, she waited. During evening visiting hours there were lots of extra people in the halls. She could probably get to the stairway and then it was just a matter of running down a few flights and getting on the elevator from the third or fourth floor. Then, she'd be free—free to disappear to where no one could find her.
Alexandra ate her supper, stowed the roll and orange in her bookbag, and when the time was right, put her plan into effect. It was easier than she had imagined. Long before any of the infirmary staff realized she had gone, Alexandra had melted into the twilight and the crowds of homeward bound commuters.
TWENTY
Eikoheh cursed, quietly and passionately, over what she saw in her pattern. They had been so close! The shapeshifter had actually touched 'Tsan—and for nothing! She finished all the curses she knew and began inventing new ones. A chuckle stopped her; she spun around.
"You are very inventive, Dreamweaver," the Namegiver said.
"Don't you ever knock?" she demanded testily.
The Namegiver shrugged. "Rarely. It lessens the dramatic effect of my entrance. Tell me what is wrong with your pattern."
"It is plain for you to read."
"Plain to you, or to Elgonar; to me, it is so much cloth."
Eikoheh pointed. "This is the shapeshifter; and that, 'Tsan. They came close—touched, even—but the pattern refused to take the path I had envisioned. You see? These other colors are now coming to the surface, not the ones I chose. 'Tsan's thread is buried within the fabric. I cannot find the Trickster's influence, but it must be there. Surely, events would not be so contrary without the guiding of her hand."
"If the difficulty has to do with 'Tsan, the Trickster is not to blame. She has bound herself not to use her influence upon 'Tsan." The Namegiver looked thoughtful. "She called upon me as witness. I cannot imagine who could have forced her to such a promise; but I am grateful."
"She won't use her influence upon 'Tsan." The old woman repeated slowly, "Not upon 'Tsan. Not upon 'Tsan! Then she will move against the Five!" She turned back to the loom, pounced on the shuttle wound with the power stolen from the Trickster. A spark of wicked amusement kindled in her eyes. "I know how to be a nuisance. Do you think, Namegiver, that the Trickster would like being thrown in contact with 'Tsan after she has bound herself with her own promise?"
The Namegiver raised her eyebrows. "Can you do that?"
"I can try," the Dreamweaver replied. "I am nearly certain I can tangle the Trickster's thread with 'Tsan's, but it will take some time to arrange. My pattern grows more slowly than events across the void move. I doubt I will be able to prevent the Trickster from striking some blow against the Five—if she knows where they are. I can only hope to deflect the worst of it—and then distract her."
"Do your best, Dreamweaver. I, for one, would enjoy watching the Trickster squirm in the grip of her own rash vow."
***
When Isaac Marchbanks got home, the Trickster was already there. Her eyes widened at the sight of his bandaged hand.
"What happened?" she asked him.
"It's a long story. Would you toss a couple of Lean Cuisines in the microwave? I'm not up to anything more ambitious."
The Trickster stared at him.
"In the freezer," he prompted—to no effect.
She hunched her shoulders. "I don't understand."
"Oh, for the love of heaven." He rolled his eyes. "Lean Cuisines: prepackaged frozen dinners; they live in the freezer in boxes." He gestured to the upper door of an oblong metal box. "Pick out something you can stand to eat—I'm not fussy. Then toss them in the microwave."
"What's the 'microwave'?"
"What planet are you from?"
She smiled sheepishly. "One that hasn't 'microwaves.'"
Isaac actually laughed. "Look, if you just get those damned dinners out and unwrap them, I'll do the rest." He held up his bandaged right hand. "I'm not up to wrestling with packaging."
The Trickster did her best; the packaging was stubborn. When they were both seated at the kitchen table, and Isaac was awkwardly eating left-handed, the Trickster made another attempt to get him to tell her the tale of his injury.
"You said it was a long story; do we have time for it now?"
"I got bitten by a stray cat," he said.
The Trickster eyed him with mocking severity. "That is a short story. You must have left a great deal out."
Isaac was tom between irritation and amusement. "People generally say something is a long story when they don't want to tell it at all," he said.
"Oh," she replied. "I didn't understand that. I apologize; I didn't mean to pry."
Isaac's lips quirked in a cynical smile. The answering gleam in her eyes showed him he had been right to doubt her.
"Point to you," she conceded. "I should have known I couldn't fox you with that! But I am dying of curiosity."
He studied her for another moment. "You're very good; I wasn't entirely sure I was right. You won't really die of your curiosity, Antekkereh."
"No," she agreed, menace tingeing her voice, "but you may."
"Ah-ha! Intimidation!" He grinned at her. "Now I can refuse to tell you and not even feel guilty about it."
The Trickster's anger bled away. "I suppose I ought to have guessed it would have that effect on you," she said dryly.
"I’ve given you ample clues," he agreed.
Slowly, her expression clouded to seriousness. "I don't understand: why aren't you afraid of me? Everyone else is."
"Everyone?" he asked her.
She looked up, troubled, and nodded.
"Why are they afraid?"
"Becaus
e I'm wild and unpredictable; because they never know what I will do next, and they have no way to curb me."
"Do you want everyone to be afraid of you?"
"I never thought about it," she admitted. "It never mattered before."
"Before what?" he probed.
"Before I met someone I couldn't bully." Her eyes swam with unshed tears.
With his good hand he touched her cheek. "It's not too late to change, Antekkereh."
They were connected by the touch of fingers on a cheek until she pulled away. "Will you teach me to read?" she asked.
"What?"
"I thought—you knew I couldn't—"
His common sense kicked in. "Of course I'll teach you—or I should say, I'll try. But you might do better with someone who is trained to teach adults to read."
"I'd rather learn from you," she said. Something in his reaction made her relax. "After all," she added with wide-eyed malice, "how hard can reading be if you can do it?"
It took a moment, but then, they were both laughing.
***
Alexandra was afraid to sleep. She knew they could get into her dreams. She found a diner, and sat, drinking coffee and pretending to read, until she was kicked out at closing time. She didn't know where she could go to get away from them. The silent, deserted streets made her edgy. It was easy to imagine that they had somehow spirited the other people away, leaving her as exposed as a shell on the beach. Perhaps there were no other people; perhaps they were merely images invented by them.
Alexandra fought this train of thought. She knew other people weren't merely one of their inventions; some people had to be real. Ahead, she saw a Dunkin' Donuts shop. To her anxious mind, it seemed an oasis of light and safety. There was a bored waiter inside. The smell of doughnuts choked her, but she could always drink more coffee. Morning would be a better time to make decisions, when sunlight could chase away night fears and despair.
***
The Trickster learned to read with frightening speed. As Isaac thought about reading, and the sound each letter represented, the Trickster lifted the background from his mind, as well as his verbal explanation. Before the evening was over, she had mastered printed matter. Sensing Isaac's uneasiness, she stopped showing him how well she understood and spent the rest of the evening forming the letters of the alphabet with her own awkward hand. After Isaac had gone to sleep, she got out the note she had found in Alexandra's door. She puzzled out most of it and listed a few things that stumped her: "1:00 PM"; "115 Harrington St. Apt. 3, Barre, VT 05641"; and "Phone: (802) 470-5758." Just as she had finished writing and had hidden away the note, there came a sharp, shrilling sound.
The Feast of the Trickster Page 13
