"Shall we find something to eat?" he asked Vihena.
She watched him approach a vendor who dealt in twisted pieces of toasted, salted bread. Remarr bought a pair of them and two cups of cold, vaguely fruit-flavored drink. After they had eaten, they rested until the sun had slipped from its zenith. Then they went back to their task, alternating "dances" with songs. Though they amassed an impressive collection of coins and bills, they saw no sign of 'Tsan—or of the Trickster. A little before four o'clock they went to meet Angel's father.
"Did you have fun?" he asked them.
"It was a very interesting day," Remarr responded. "Thank you for bringing us here."
Mr. Newcomb chuckled. "Don't thank me until we get safely through rush-hour traffic," he warned cheerfully. "Vihena, you look exhausted."
"I think I'll sleep on the homeward journey," she told him, managing a smile. It was one way to avoid both rudeness and falsehood. She was hot, tired, and frustrated; and she suspected Remarr was laughing at her. As she closed her eyes, she heard the minstrel ask about Mr. Newcomb's conference; she fell asleep to the murmur of their talk.
***
When the Trickster returned to Isaac's house, he stared at her in surprise. After a moment, he managed a smile. "Are you turning over a new leaf?"
"Do you like it?"
He shrugged. "I'm not sure it's you."
"Who else would it be?" she retorted.
"That's not exactly what I meant, but never mind. You look very nice, Antekkereh. Are you hungry? Dinner's almost ready."
As they sat down to eat, there was an awkward silence, one full of scraps of worry and sharp-edged chips of doubt. Isaac broke it, laying his fork down and leaning toward the Trickster.
"Will you explain this Trickster-business for me?"
At first, she could not meet his eyes. When she looked up, there was resolve in the set of her jaw. "If you want me to explain away what you call the Trickster-business, I cannot; I respect you too much to lie to you. If you ask me to explain again, I will—but I warn you: I doubt it will ease your fears."
Isaac stared with great concentration at the food on his plate. Then he sighed and raised his eyes to hers. "You'd better explain, Antekkereh; it's worse not knowing."
"Where do you want me to begin?"
"Begin with yourself: who are you, why are you here, how do you know Alexandra Scarsdale, and why does she matter to you?"
The Trickster began. "I am the Trickster, one of the gods in the world from which I come—which is different from this one. The world from which I come is governed by the Weaver and the Loom of Fate; there are people there, as here, and there are shapeshifters—and gods. My coming here was the result of a fight with my brother, the Weaver. I thought I was stronger than I am, and that he was not as clever as he is. I know 'Tsan because, three and a half years ago, the Weaver strung her color in the Loom and summoned her to our world to save the Orathi."
"Wait," Isaac interrupted weakly. "Are you asking me to believe that the things Alexandra calls her delusions are true? Are you and the others—if those young women are involved—playing some sick game with Alexandra's sanity?"
"It is all true, Isaac. I swear it."
"Can you prove it?"
Though Isaac's words were calm, she knew he was both angry and terrified. She held out her hand. "Give me your hand—the injured one."
"What are you going to do?" he asked as she began unwrapping the dressing.
"I won't hurt you, Isaac," she assured him. She slid one hand under his wrist and laid the other, lightly as a moth's wing, over his injury. She closed her eyes.
Isaac watched as her breathing slowed. The muscles around her eyes tightened with concentration or pain. Sweat sprang out on her brow and cheeks; her breathing grew labored. A tingling sensation began in his hand, spreading slowly up his arm. With a gasp, the Trickster took her upper hand away. Isaac stared. His hand was healed. He balled it into a fist, then he turned it over and wrapped his fingers around the wrist of the Trickster's supporting hand. "How the hell did you do that?"
"I told you," she said desperately. "I'm a god. It is one of the things we can do."
The mixture of disbelief and fear on his face chilled the Trickster. She hadn't realized, until that instant, how much he mattered to her.
"Oh, Isaac," she whispered; her voice caught on tears. "Please: don't fear me. I would never hurt you—I swear it!"
He said nothing; but slowly, he reached out with the hand she had healed. She did not pull away. He brushed her cheek with one finger, catching a tear. As he drew his hand away from her face, his trembling caused the tear to catch the light and glimmer like a faceted jewel. He looked from the stolen tear to the Trickster's brimming eyes, and his own terror dissolved. "I'm not afraid of you, Antekkereh," he said. And somewhat to his amazement, he found that it was true. "I can't pretend to understand all of this, but I know you would do me no harm."
Relief spilled her brimming tears. "Thank you, Isaac."
He smiled, an impish gleam lighting the depths of his dark eyes. "There go your intimidation tactics!"
"They didn't work anyway," she told him before her smile turned sly. "Besides, how do you know I haven't already come up with something better?"
TWENTY-FIVE
It wasn't until after lunch the following day that the Five (less Ychass) and their allies (minus Brigid, who was at work) were able to slink off to the hayloft to discuss Remarr and Vihena's Boston trip.
Vihena reported in a precise manner that made it apparent she had found the whole excursion unsatisfactory. When she finished, Brice turned to Remarr.
"I hate to seem mercenary, but did you collect much money?" Remarr dug it out, from his pockets and from the harp case. "You tell me," he suggested. "This includes what is left from what you lent me as well as our earnings."
Angel whistled at the total. "Eighty-three dollars, seventy cents, and one bus token. That's unbelievable!"
"A great deal?" Remarr asked.
"Well, yes," said Mark. "You may not have found your friend, but you've made enough money to pay Ychass's board bill for nearly two weeks. I wouldn't call that a wasted day."
"I would," Vihena snapped. "Each day that passes without locating 'Tsan makes the success of our quest less likely. We spent a whole day there, with nothing to show for it."
Remarr took the bus token and pressed it into the swordswoman's palm. "Something to show," he said with a mocking smile. "A token of our appreciation."
Vihena's fingers closed around the metal disk. She glared at Remarr for several seconds; then, without warning, she slammed her fist into his face. That would have been bad enough—a hard hit, without warning—but Remarr was perched on a bale near the edge of the loft; her punch knocked him backward, off the bale. He tried to slow his descent, but it was as though he had been shoved down a giant's staircase with no railing. He bounced twice before he reached the edge of the hayloft and plunged into space.
There was an appalled hush before the others erupted into a frantic scramble for the steep loft steps. Remarr lay sprawled on his back in the sand of the arena. They hurried to his side.
"Is he all right?" Angel demanded.
"He's stunned," Karivet replied. "He's breathing, and it does not look as though he has broken bones."
To their immeasurable relief, Remarr groaned and opened his eyes—or rather, one of his eyes. The other was already beginning to swell shut. Mark helped him to sit up while Angel went after an ice pack.
Ychass's voice spoke in his mind. So what happened? Why did Vihena attack you?
Ask Vihena.
I did, the shapeshifter protested. She bit my head off.
Remarr smiled. And you are dying of curiosity. Well, I miscalculated. I must have put a bit too much sting in my smile. Yesterday's mission placed great strain on our truce.
I doubt she meant to knock you out of the loft.
Perhaps not. His thought-voice was a sigh. It's probably my van
ity speaking, but I do wish she didn't despise me.
***
"What were you thinking of, Vihena?" Angel demanded.
"I wasn't thinking!" Vihena returned. "I lost my temper. It was lucky I didn't kill him; if I'd been wearing a sword, I might have sliced him into collops. Have I groveled enough, Angel?"
"You haven't said you're sorry."
"I'm not sorry."
"Well, you sure as hell ought to be," Angel retorted.
"He began it."
"I find that hard to believe. I point out to you, Vihena, that Remarr has never struck you."
"That hardly speaks in the coward's favor. He would never dare raise his hand against me."
"Do you seriously think that Remarr is a coward?" Angel challenged.
"Do you seriously maintain that he is not?"
"He faced a state trooper and a whole hospital full of doctors and nurses for you, Vihena." Angel scowled as she noted the mulish set of Vihena's chin. "You need to think about what courage really is. There's a lot more to it than swaggering around confidently when you already know you have the upper hand."
When Vihena made no reply, Angel snapped, "Don't you think you could apologize to him—in the interests of peace?"
Vihena crossed her arms and glared. "I will not."
Angel stamped her foot. "Vihena, you're being stubborn!" The swordswoman caught hold of the front of Angel's shirt, and dragged her forward, so they were nose to nose. "Leave off," she whispered. "I will brook no meddling." Then, turning on her heel, she stalked away.
Angel drew several deep breaths. It unnerved her to see how shaken the confrontation had left her. She had never seen Vihena like this—frustrated and impatient, yes, but never so dangerously poised for violence. With a deep sigh, she turned her attention to her responsibilities.
The companions allowed the soothing routine of stable work to ease their tensions and uneasiness. Through the rest of the afternoon Remarr and Vihena treated each other with cool indifference. It was clear to all of them that the incident was closed—though neither healed nor forgotten.
***
Much to her disgust, Alexandra's train did not arrive in Boston until after her bank had closed. She decided to risk a trip back to her room. She needed a shower, and there were things she was reluctant to leave behind if she were truly going to relocate elsewhere.
She reached Dunster House around six and fled up the stairs to her room. Once there, she would not permit herself a light; there must be no sign visible from outside that she was home.
The bathroom was dim but not dark. She luxuriated in the hot water, felt it dissolve both dirt and tension. Afterward, she felt so much better she even considered sleeping. They didn't know she was here. This would be the last place they would look, after all. She put on her nightgown and went back into the bathroom to brush her teeth.
The Super had replaced the mirror. Alexandra was so relaxed that she stared at her own reflection without even a hint of uneasiness.
It took her a long time to notice that the image in the mirror had changed. It was no longer her face that looked back at her, but the Weaver's serene image. Alexandra felt the way she had when she had faced her dead father across the breakfast table: numb; beyond fear or anger. She finished brushing her teeth and looked back into the mirror. The Weaver was still there.
"I can't even say you're dead. You just never existed," she told the image.
Puzzlement clouded his expression. "But I do exist. One might argue that I am redundant, but I am real. I gave you my name, 'Tsan; don't you remember?"
"How can I remember something that never happened?"
"How can you not remember something that did?"
She thought of the cult, the missing months of her life, which even after three years she could not reconstruct. "I'd like to know."
As he followed her thoughts, her pain was mirrored in his eyes. "This 'cult' is no real thing, 'Tsan. You believe it happened but it was not thus. I wove your color into the Loom. I summoned you into my world, and the Trickster cast you back. Truly, do you remember none of it?"
"None of it is real." Her voice was soft, as though she repeated a mantra.
The Weaver's eyes brimmed with tears. "Oh 'Tsan, forgive me," he pleaded. The tears spilled like quicksilver down his cheeks. "Between us, the Trickster and I have crippled you."
"None of it is real," she repeated. "None of it is real."
In the face of her disbelief, the Weaver's image wavered. For a long moment, the mirror reflected nothing; then it filled again with the reflection of Alexandra, who continued to murmur, "None of it is real."
TWENTY-SIX
"Elgonar!"
The voice jerked the Weaver's head up. He hurriedly dashed tears from his face. He knew that voice; he did not relish the confrontation.
"Come in, Mother. My door is always open to you."
The Mother was an imposing presence robed in green, her fire-bright hair braided and pinned into a coronet. She bent her gaze on the Weaver and he restrained himself from fidgeting like a guilty child. The silence was unshakable, and very awkward.
"Where is the Trickster?" she asked at last, with the air of one who knows but wants to hear the shameful truth from the miscreant's own lips.
"I sent her across the void." His voice was neutral, with neither defensiveness nor apology.
The Mother waited for an excuse then said, scathingly, "How could you?"
The Weaver's voice was unruffled. He answered her words, not her tone. "I used her own power. She lost control and I seized it."
"Why?" There was a warning glitter of outrage in her eyes.
"It was the only way I could think of to remove her hands from my throat before she choked the life out of me."
"The Loom is strong—"
"But the Weaver is not invulnerable; and I was frightened. I have done nothing to prevent her return.”
The Mother scrutinized him, as though she could read half-truths and evasions in the lines around his eyes. Then, with a sniff of disdain, she spun away and stalked to the Loom. The Weaver closed his eyes as though in pain, but his expression, was impassive when she whirled back. "What are you doing?”
There was more open emotion in her voice than he had ever heard.
"Nothing.” His reply was quiet, though he could feel his breath short in his throat. The driving emotion behind the Mothers anger was—fear. "That pattern is the Dreamweaver's.”
Crossing to him, swift, furious, she gripped his shoulders. "Are you mad, Elgonar? Do you know what you risk?”
"Tell me," he whispered.
She shook him, hard. "The Loom is strong, Elgonar, but it was never meant to hold my world together across the void! My mortal children have no business walking the realms of other gods. You stretch the fabric on the Loom so that at the merest puff, it will tear. Without the Loom to hold it, the world I birthed will burst apart, and then, all will be lost to chaos. Not even the voice of the Star Sower will have power to call back the sundered fragments.” Suddenly, her anger flared. "What possible justification could you have for such folly?”
"The damage was done before ever I sent the Five across the void. I know the Loom. I am the Loom! The wounding you speak of, the weakening, happened when the Trickster cast out the Wanderer. Her thread was torn—torn!—from the Loom; and power streams from the wound like blood. I sent the Five to bring her back, to see whether we could staunch the Loom's wound."
"The Wanderer? The one who went to Windsmeet, for the Orathi?" At his nod, she made a dismissive gesture. "But she was a Khedatheh, surely."
"She was not! I met her: neither Khedatheh, Vematheh, Oratheh, nor shapeshifter; something else. Mother, when I strung a Wanderer's color on the Loom, she answered; and now her Fate is woven with ours. 'Tsan belongs to the Loom, and by casting her out, the Trickster has imperiled us all."
The Mother was silent; then she turned back to the Loom. "I have never before had cause to regret putting the Loom i
n your hands, Elgonar. But even if what you say is true, this has put the worlds out of balance. Even if your mortals are not lost in the worlds beyond the void, there will be a price to rebalance the worlds." She faced him. Her austere expression and the cold fire of her eyes made him swallow. "Summon your allies."
"From across the void?" he temporized.
"Your allies among the gods. Surely you do not expect me to believe that you have undertaken this venture alone?"
"Believe as you choose: I will summon no one. Either I have no allies, or their names are not mine to share."
Their eyes met as their wills clashed. The Mother was the first to look away. "I never imagined, Elgonar, that you would deceive me; some of the others, yes, but not you, my faithful Weaver.''
"I couldn't possibly deceive you, Mother—so I must be content with stubborn silence."
"Useless stubborn silence," she snapped. After a moment's study of the Loom, she commanded, in a voice ringing with power, "Yschadeh! Irenden! Attend me in the Weaver's Bower." As she turned back to Elgonar, she surprised the glint of ironic amusement in his eyes.
At her lifted eyebrows, he shrugged. "It is your voice, not mine, which summons them. I find victories in little things."
"If it is neither pride nor arrogance, nor lust for power, nor jealousy which drives you to hazard everything on this throw, Elgonar, what is it?"
His answering expression was tender and a little sad. "It is love for this world you have birthed, and my stubborn unwillingness to concede to entropy."
The Mother sighed; when she spoke, her voice was heavy with sorrow. "And what if the cost is more than you can bear?"
"I don't see how it can be," he replied, "unless we fail."
The Mother became aware, then, of the presence of the Dreamer and the Namegiver. Her glance included them all. "You realize that meddling on this scale will require a judgment in the Godsmoot?" At the Weavers gesture of assent, she went on, more quietly. "And you realize that your punishment could be severe?" Again, he nodded. "And you realize, also, that I cannot impose my will upon the judgment of the Godsmoot? If it had been left to me, the Trickster would never have been bound. So heed me: move quietly and with care. I will not call the Godsmoot against you; but I cannot stop it, if one of the others learns of what you attempt and takes affront." Then, sweeping her gaze across them one last time, she left the Bower.
The Feast of the Trickster Page 17
