With her Mage Sense, Stardance could See the others as large shapes of life energy, moving slowly and cautiously toward the outcropping. Sinking into the earth, she let her breathing slow, closing off the protests of her mind to the sense of wrong that came from the creature ahead of her. Her first step was to set another layer of secure shields on the locus, adding to those Deermoon had created years ago. These shields were what prevented the creature from directly drawing on the Heartstone as well, for Deermoon had locked the magic so only Tayledras could use it. Her shields built on his, binding the magic around the locus tightly to her, so that nothing could wrest it from her. Working with a locus was just past the edge of a Journeyman’s ability, but simply shielding and feeding the lines that went to it was far easier than making use of the power it held.
When she was satisfied with her shields, she set the spindle in motion with a deft flick. Stardance began her work, gathering the nebulous power with delicate fingertips and drafting it out, linking it to the twirling spindle until it held together, then binding that strand to the locus. With deliberate movements, she collected more, drawing the muddied energy toward her. To Mage Sense, the tendrils of power wavered as they were torn between the gentle flow of Deermoon’s channels and the roiling pull toward the Blood Beast. With a gentle nudge, she drew on those diffuse bits, reminding them of their natural course, to run into the lines that fed toward the Heartstone. Each bit of energy she captured glowed as she blended it into the coil of power that trailed from the shaft of her spindle down to the locus.
Her awareness of the Mages and scouts ahead of her sharpened when she felt Firewind begin to build his first illusion, the web shivering around her as he drew on another nearby locus. The plan had called for him to create an illusion of a threat of some sort in the cavern behind the creature, to drive it forward. If that failed, one of the other Mages would try to lure it. She hadn’t bothered to ask what they would use as a lure, considering that the creature didn’t seem to eat anything. Her concern was just to hold the magic away from the thing.
It was her own actions, though, that finally elicited a reaction from the Blood Beast. Through the web, she had felt the Mages in turn creating their illusions, for most of them were drawing on the lines or one of the loci. From what she could sense, though, there had been no response from the creature to any of their efforts. A small part of her mind, one not occupied with the spinning whirl of power she held in her hands, wondered if the creature’s connection to magic meant that it could see through illusions.
She had been drawing on ever-stronger pieces of power, first clearing the muddled surface energy, then carefully nudging the smallest rivulets to feed back into the locus below her. It was when she gently teased the tendrils of one of the larger lines out of its new route, guiding it back to the original channel that Deermoon had created for it, that she felt a response through the web.
In her Mage Sense, the creature was a dark, roiling mass as it emerged from the cavern and headed unerringly in her direction. The bright life energies of the scouts and warriors surrounded it, but she had no perception of whether their attacks affected it.
Stardance was caught in a struggle of her own, as the Blood Beast now pulled on the lines, trying to wrest them from her. She grounded herself even more firmly in the earth, flicking her spindle so it flew, and held to the nebulous strands of power she had regathered, feeding them ever more rapidly to the shielded locus below her.
Sweat gathered on her brow, stinging her eyes as she worked, but her grip never wavered as the creature struggled to steal the lines of magic from her. Its efforts grew weaker, and she guessed that the fighting party was succeeding. A distant shout of triumph reached her ears, and she Felt the beast’s death through the lines that it had been pulling at.
With a snap of backlash, the creature’s hoarded Power flooded out, a dark blaze of chaos that threatened to drown her, connected as she was to the lines that had fed it. Fire rippled through her veins, singeing the ends of her nerves. Gasping for air, she strained to hold the surge of energy, the amber spindle bouncing crazily as she struggled to channel the power down toward the locus before it burned her mind. So great was the flood of Power, she reached to the locus and past it, to the greater lines, desperate to keep the energy moving without burning either her or her surroundings. The larger lines were white-hot, but somehow smoother and easier for her to handle than the raw power that the Change-Creature had released, and she battled to keep the threads of magic blended, to keep the flow moving toward the Heartstone. Through the chaos in her mind, she was vaguely aware of Kir, mantling on her shoulder and shrieking a warning.
Stardance had no sense of how long she struggled with the seething, turbulent magic, until at last the flaming tide ebbed, her spindle slowing as the flood of energy dwindled. With a new confidence, she held the lines, testing them and feeling their flow, until she was satisfied that they should return to Deermoon’s channels without immediate guidance. Only then did she release her shields, letting her spindle drift to a stop, and emerged from Trance, her body slumping.
Most of the original group now stood around her, concern in their eyes as Kir chittered at her. “It will be well,” Stardance managed in a croaking voice, and Firewind handed her a flask.
It was the mineral drink favored by those suffering magical exhaustion, and Stardance drained it, then leaned back against a nearby tree. Slowly, the drink began to cool her overheated mind.
“Will you be well?” her father asked, taking back his flask with a frown. “Should we send for a dyheli? You’ve been working for candlemarks since we killed the thing.”
Stardance shook her head to clear it. Kir had calmed, nibbling at her ear, and she reached up a quivering hand to stroke the soft underfeathers of her white-barred breast.
“I will be well enough,” she replied, her voice raspy. She glanced up toward the sun. “I just need a little more time.” The edges of her mind felt vaguely scorched, and she didn’t even think she could concentrate long enough to replenish herself from the earth.
* * *
Stardance wound off the last length of spun thread from her spindle onto one of the tapered wooden storage rods, tying the end with a light knot so the strand wouldn’t drift back to loose fibers before she could ply it with another length. Even though she used the spindle every time she worked with the subtle drifts of Mage energy, she never failed to find working with fiber a calming pastime. Her thread would never be as smooth as a true artisan’s and was certainly nowhere near as fine as Triska’s had been, but still it gave her pleasure to have something of substance to hold after a session with her spindle.
The physical task also helped her to think, clearing her mind and aiding her focus. The k’Lissa Council had asked her to stay longer, to help Deermoon and his apprentices continue to restore balance around the Vale, and she needed to make a decision. She had been here for several moons already, assisting them after the death of the Change-Creature, but did she feel she was still needed? Would she prefer to remain? She knew her father wanted her to stay, to become part of k’Lissa entirely. But while she had enjoyed meeting her half-siblings and her cousins, she couldn’t think of them as family. Her thoughts drifted back to k’Veyas, to Silverheart and Windwhisperer and Nightblade. Images of each filled her mind: Silverheart’s round face and efficient manner, Windwhisperer’s warm brown eyes and calm advice, Nightblade’s darker eyes and sharp features.
Reaching for the box to store the spindle, she traced the knotwork details of the delicately carved lid with a finger before opening it. She assumed Nightblade had done the carving himself—as she enjoyed spinning, even though the hertasi artisans were more skilled, he enjoyed woodworking. She opened the lid and placed the tapered spindle in the shaped liner, and her fingers caught a corner of the fabric. A flicker of something underneath it reflected a glimmer of light into her eyes. Realizing that the corner was actually folded t
o pull on, she set the spindle on the small table and gently lifted out the padding.
In shocked silence Stardance stared at what was tucked underneath, until at last she reached out with a hand that actually trembled. Her fingers traced the crystal-decorated shaft of a kestrel’s rusty brown tailfeather, gliding along it to pick up the beaded chain and hold it dangling in front of her. Green stones glittered in the narrow ribbon of sunlight that angled through the window of the guest-ekele, the feather twisting in the air from her sharp, rapid breaths.
Her pulse raced while her mind scattered from thought to thought. She had exchanged flowers a few times with the young men of k’Veyas—and had gently refused those from Sunsong here in k’Lissa—but never had Nightblade offered her a flower. He had never courted anyone, that she could recall. He was older, and she assumed he thought of her as a younger sister, nothing more . . .
Stardance let that thought trail off as her mind crowded with images. She remembered how Nightblade seemed to have always been there when she needed assistance, even back to those hard days after Triska’s death. She recalled how he always assigned himself to guard her, how his eyes always seemed to seek her out, how he always knew where she was, even in a crowd—and how she usually knew where he was. She thought of the consideration shown by the gift of the spindle itself and the clever linked chain so that she could use it as her focus more easily. She remembered the strange expression in his eyes when the visitors had first come to k’Veyas and again when he had said his abrupt farewell to her, and the pieces began to make sense.
She frowned at the feather. Why would he have done it in this manner? To offer this when there had been no previous relationship, or even any overt indication of desire? And not to properly offer the feather, but to conceal it where she might never have noticed it? And then to tell her not to open the gift until she was at k’Lissa, far from k’Veyas and the ability to ask him anything about it?
The frown turned into a burst of laughter. That made the most sense of all. Nightblade had never been one to take kindly to questions—and certainly not from her. What good would it do to interrogate him, anyway? she thought, a soft half-smile still lighting her eyes as she gently brushed her finger along the feather’s delicate inner vane. The feather itself, despite the peculiar circumstance, was perfectly clear. The only questions that needed answering were the ones she had to ask of herself.
* * *
As Stardance had expected, when she joined the Council the next morning, her father’s eyes were immediately drawn to the sparkling of the crystals on the feather woven into her hair, the red-brown vanes almost blending with russet braids streaked with white. She saw a flash of speculation in his expression, and she could almost see him wondering if Sunsong might have earned her favor.
“Have you made your decision, Stardance?” Amberlight asked, and she nodded.
“Yes, Elder. It is time for me to return home, before the autumn rains make it too difficult.” A moment of silence, then a flurry of protests, in which her father’s voice was loudest, until Amberlight held up his hand for silence so she could continue.
“It has been nearly three full moons since the death of the Change-Creature, and the energy where it had been is well on its way to balance. Deermoon’s strength is a little slower to recover, but his focus is much improved. His apprentices should be able to continue the work in the area well enough under such supervision as he can now provide. I need to return home to k’Veyas, to Silverheart, and to my responsibilities there.”
“But surely Deermoon can supervise your Mastery Trial—and with only the apprentices, will the Vale be safe should something like the Blood Beast return?” Her father again, but she could see nods of concerned agreement among the Council.
Stardance shook her head, the feather in her hair brushing lightly against her cheek, a reminder that more than responsibility to Silverheart and the Clan awaited her. “If, as we believe, the creature was a product of the Mage Storms, it is a wonder that it survived unnoticed for the years since then. It would be doubly a wonder if there should have been two. And as for the Mastery Trial,” she actually chuckled a little, “Silverheart is cleverer than all of us. This was my Trial. Ask Deermoon, if you doubt me,” she continued, gesturing to the older Mage, who had sat silent throughout. “Only a Master Healing-Mage at full strength could have dealt with the discordance to the earth energies that thing created.”
The rest of the Council now turned and watched Deermoon, who barely leaned on his stick when he stood. “Stardance is correct. Her ability and control have surpassed what Mastery requires.” His blue eyes narrowed briefly as he studied her. “If there were more magic gathered for her to use, she would be likely to soon be Adept.”
Chatter erupted around them, once again hushed by Amberlight. “Is she also correct in her estimation of your apprentices?” he asked Deermoon, leaving unspoken the question of Deermoon’s own capacity.
“They have control enough to do what is needed now that the major imbalance is righted. My own strength will continue to grow, as it has already begun.” The Healer-Mage replied to both the spoken and silent questions.
Amberlight turned back to Stardance. “We shall certainly be sorry to see you leave, Stardance, for you have been a welcome addition to k’Lissa.” He glanced over at Firewind, then continued. “But it has always been your decision to make. Scouts will accompany you to k’Veyas whenever you wish to depart.”
At last, Stardance met her father’s eyes. In their green depths, she saw resigned disappointment. It would not have been lost on him that she had referred to k’Veyas as home, and deep within her she knew that it always would be.
* * *
As they neared the edge of the k’Veyas territory, where they could expect a greeting from whichever scout patrolled this border, Stardance’s eye was caught by a bondbird circling overhead that was soon joined by a soaring Kir. She squinted and eyed the bird, then gave a tiny smile. It was a large gray goshawk, and she was not surprised to see Nightblade standing before them when they moved farther along the forest path.
Although his arms were casually folded, she read a subtle unease around him, and she hid another smile. With a fluid movement, she dismounted, leaving the dyheli with the k’Lissa scouts and taking a few steps forward, then stopping and waiting, her eyes on him.
Nightblade had straightened, no longer trying to disguise the tension radiating from him. A light breeze sprang up, riffling her hair and the beaded feather braided into it, and from the change in his stance she realized that he hadn’t seen it, so well did it match her red-brown hair. Now it was his turn to move, measured strides bringing him to stand in front of her, his focus shifting from the feather in her braids to her waiting gaze.
As though he didn’t quite believe his eyes, he lifted one hand to trace along the crystal-beaded chain, his fingertips then tenderly gliding down her cheek.
Stardance released a breath she didn’t even know she held, sighing and pressing her cheek into his hand, which gently curved around her jaw. For long moments dark brown eyes held gray-green, then Nightblade folded her into his arms, her head tucked in the crook of his neck.
“Welcome home, ashke,” he whispered against her hair, and Stardance smiled.
Weavings
Diana L. Paxson
Deira had always found weaving soothing. Once the upright loom was braced against the wall that faced the hearth and the warp attached, you could lose yourself in drawing the shuttle back and forth and beating up the thread. Weaving was something you could control.
But not today.
As she jerked the shuttle past the last group of warps, the thread snapped, and she swore. Why was she surprised, on a day that had begun with a fight with Selaine about taking a turn at the loom? Her daughter had reached the age when any parental order produced a protest. In the end, Deira had sent her to the mill beyond the village for som
e of the flour with which the miller was paying for a length of wool.
Brushing back a lock of hair that the years had darkened to old gold, she allowed herself to remember being sixteen, the last year before the war. Instead of the loom, she saw the house by the bridge, and in the next breath, flame. Suppressing the memory, she replaced the image with the snug surroundings of her cottage. Net bags suspended from the hewn beams held shuttles wound with thread and hanks of yarn, or flax needing combing, or lengths of wool roving waiting to be spun. The thick rug was patterned in a lozenge and stripe design, and crisp linen curtains fluttered at the window that looked across the meadow to the river and the road. It was better to live without memories.
She fluffed out the broken ends of the thread and joined them, then rolled them together between thumb and forefinger, willing the tiny hooks in the strands to link and hold. Wool fibers wanted to cling together. When you were weaving flax, a broken thread was a disaster. It was only a serious annoyance with wool. The clay warp weights clinked and swung as she carefully eased the repaired thread up against the weft and pushed it tightly into place. Then she looped it around the edge and began once more.
“Mother, Mother!”
Deira jerked as the door slammed open and felt the thread snap again.
“How many times—” The words died as she saw Selaine’s face, hazel eyes wide and fair curls standing on end.
“There was an attack on Highbarrow farm yester’eve,” gasped the girl. Beyond the village the ground rose steeply, and a number of farmsteads were tucked into the folds between the hills.
“Raiders?” asked Deira, her anger congealing into a cold lump of fear. She blinked away memories of screaming and firelight on a lifted sword.
“Dunno—Farmer Dorn’s boy Tad saw smoke when he was driving sheep up t’ the meadow. At least one body—” She reached for the box of medicines by the hearth.
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