Contrarywise

Contrarywise Page 19

by Zohra Greenhalgh

  —Old Suxonli Saying Chapter Twenty-Eight Come Autumn in Speakinghast when mornings were clear and brisk, the copper bells of the Great Library rang the sleep from the city with plangent thunder. Soon horse-drawn carts creaked and jolted down wide avenues of brown cobblestone. Asilliwir spice wagons, fragrant with exotic miles, censed the air with mysterious perfumes that tantalized: woody cinnamon, musk, and rare green patchou bark; pungent clove, orange molly, and wild titchiba balm. Here were scents to clear the mind and pleasure the tongue. «And all for a most reeeasonable price,» cried Asilliwir hawkers, twirling their moustaches and grinning. This brought chaffing laughter from the other Speakinghast merchants who huddled around small campfires, ceramic mugs of hot, black teas clasped in their gloved hands. Well known for their «creative pricing,» Asilliwir scalping and bargain buys predominated here. This was a haggler's heaven. Called the Asilliwir Open Air Market, people of all draws flocked to the painted caravan wagons and clan-run stalls. Despite the lingering Trickster Summer, the air was chill at this early hour. Men and women wrapped themselves snugly in bright, woolen blankets. They recounted local gossip as they sipped their steaming brews. A few newly arrived traders added long distance scandal and humor to the talk. Merchants of all draws exchanged monies for Saambolin Guildtender. Called silivrain by the Saam, minted coins were referred to as «silies» by everyone else. Farmers from the outskirts of the city haggled in rough dialects with early risers, their tables covered with a rich harvest of fall fruits and vegetables. Fishwives slapped their pre-dawn catches on crushed blocks of ice, gutting them deftly with shiny knives. The wool dyers called to one another and waved. Their hands were permanently stained with vegetable dyes, their brilliant clothes likewise. Sleepy students on the way to early morning classes at the University of Speakinghast picked their way across the crowded marketplace. They eyed freshly baked Piedmerri breads and sweet rolls as they decided what to purchase for a quick breakfast. The city was alive with bustle and color. And as Speakinghast entered its first hour of business, it remained unaware that a tall figure in black had just outsmarted the city's convoluted Saambolin pass system by stowing away inside a large hay wagon. While the Piedmerri farmer driving the wagon turned left down a busy street, the stowaway jumped free. She brushed pieces of hay off her veil and robe. Straightening, she whispered a rhyme to herself and joined the slowly moving crowds at the Asilliwir Market. Yes, Kelandris was crazy again. Following Rimble's suggestion that Zendrak and not Yonneth was the true villain in the Suxonli tragedy, Kel had driven herself into a mental corner of uncertainty. What Kel remembered about Zendrak at the Hallows was sweet. What she remembered of her beloved brother, Yonneth, was strange and distorted. Kel's fear that Trickster was deliberately trying to confuse her—for his own purposes—had only made the muddle worse. The psychic scarring left from the Ritual of Akindo prevented Kelandris from trusting her own perceptions—or memories. Thus, within days of leaving the northwest border of Jinnjirri, Kelandris had imagined and reimagined the events in Suxonli so many times and in so many different forms that she no longer knew which events had actually occurred and which had not. By the morning of the fourth day, Kel remembered Zendrak as the one who had poured a toxic dose of holovespa down her throat. And Yonneth? He was still Kel's best loved brother and the man to whom she had willingly given her maidenhead. Despite Kel's waking confusion, her dreams at night remained honest. Most of them revolved around the question of incest with Zendrak—which Kel could not understand—or accept. As Kel's internal strain increased, she answered her dreams by saying that Rimble was the Patron of Deviance, and anything—even incest—was possible at his revel. Rimble was the great taboo breaker. Nothing was too sacred, too established, or too dangerous to be challenged by Trickster. Still, Kel's village indoctrination contradicted Rimble's direct bloodline in herself. So upon waking, Kel lapsed into rhyme, unable to reconcile the laws of civilization with the challenge of deviance. Trickster thought this was just fine. Like Zendrak, Kelandris was three-quarters Greatkin and one quarter mortal Mythrrim. But as Aunt had pointed out to Fasilla, unlike Zendrak, Kelandris had not received the formal training necessary to control her formidable capacity to act as mortal grounding for the Remembrance of Rimble. Fragmented as she now was into several personalities, Kelandris remained difficult but relatively harmless. Unified into one self, Kelandris wielded enough power to not only «shake the foundations down» of Speakinghast, but of civilization itself. Unified, Kel might also become aware of Yonneth's whereabouts. As a Mythrrim, she would hunt and kill him for his outright abandonment of her during the improvised «trial» preceding the Ritual of Akindo. Kel had expected familial loyalty from her favorite brother and received strange shrugs and silences. In many ways, this had cut Kelandris more deeply than the brutal community flogging that had followed the trial. The extremity of Kel's reaction to Yonneth's betrayal of her was unusual for a Tammirring and typical of a Mythrrim. As a rule, the Tammi preferred little involvement in the affairs of one another—particularly the Tammi in Suxonli. Remote as the snowy mountain peaks that surrounded the tiny village, the people of Suxonli perceived emotional intimacy as an undesirable obstacle in their quest for mystical union with the Greatkin and the Presence. Kel's Mythrrim heritage, however, disturbed the serenity and indifference of her Tammirring draw. For a Mythrrim, kinship was forever. Like soulmating, kinship required nothing less than one hundred percent commitment, involvement, and affection. Yonneth, who was Jinnjirri born and therefore as isolated by his art as the Tammi were by the divine, had no idea that Kel considered his acts against her as an emotional treason worthy of confrontation and a merciless death. Trickster thought this was not fine. To begin with, Yonneth had his uses—ones Rimble planned to exploit in the Greater Scheme of Things. Trickster needed an Emissary and a Hallows he, but he also needed a Cosmic Dupe. Currently, Yonneth was well on his way to winning this plum role. Furthermore—and perhaps more importantly—Trickster knew Kelandris was not yet ready to face Yonneth. As a child, Kel had truly loved her youngest brother. To this day, a portion of Kelandris believed Yonneth had not intended to abandon her at the trial. After all, he had been a mere fifteen years old at the time of the Ritual of Akindo. If Kelandris were confronted with the true disloyalty of Yonneth's character, Trickster feared Kelandris might lose the thin thread of fluctuating sanity she still possessed. In the hopes of preserving Kel's life, Trickster decided to throw Kelandris off Yonneth's trail entirely by sending her directly into the arms of the one man in the whole world who could understand her, love her, and—Presence willing—turn her rage. To Rimble's credit, the little Greatkin had made these plans well before Phebene had stuck her sweet nose into his business. In fact, it had been Trickster's intention from the start to buy Kelandris the time she needed to heal from the fiasco in Suxonli—specifically in Zendrak's company. Deviance would get Kelandris to Zendrak one way, and love would get her there in quite another. Although Trickster would never have admitted it to Phebene, he supposed that one way was not necessarily better than the other—so long as you got to where you needed to be. In Kel's case, this meant Doogat's house. However, without a guide to bring her there, Trickster doubted that Kelandris—in her multiple state of mind—would ever find the tiny tobacco shop. It lay at the heart of the labyrinthine Asilliwir Bazaar—a busy, permanent maze of awnings, arches, and businesses. Had Kelandris been sane, Trickster would've taken her there himself. Insane, Kelandris could neither see nor hear the little Greatkin. Thus Trickster was forced to improvise. Enter Podiddley… In a park across the street from where Kelandris now walked, Po cupped water from an artesian well to his mouth. Splashing some of it in his bleary eyes, he cursed Doogat—and then Mab. For the past three weeks, the Piedmerri girl had been living with Po at Doogat's place. To date, Mab had not slept uninterrupted by nightmares since the now infamous Jinnjirri party at Rhu's house. Every night—no exceptions—Mab would wake with a panicked cry, her young body drenched with sweat. The images of her dream
s changed, but the underlying feeling remained constant: she was alone in circumstances that were out of her control. Doogat said Mab's reaction to the unhinging effects of the holovespa drug was a normal one for a Piedmerri bom. Doogat also promised that it would pass in another week. «Just in time for the Kaleidicopia's Trickster's Hallows,» Po muttered without enthusiasm. For reasons that Doogat refused to explain to him, Doogat was adamant that both he and Mab should attend this masked carnival at the house. Po's own participation seemed logical to him—with any luck he would be living again at the 'K' in a matter of days. As a house member, Po was entitled to attend house affairs. «But in Mab's case?» he said with bewilderment. «Seems idiotic so soon after Rhu's.» Po yawned. The little thief leaned idly against the stone cistern behind him. Yellow leaves drifted to the ground from the trees above, covering crimson leather of his beaten, muddy boots. This morning, Po had dressed in his favorite raggedy-man garb. A patchwork of loosely hanging materials hung sloppily over the loose fit of his red harem pants. Po wore a fiery gem in the lobe of his right ear, and a floppy, knit hat covered his receding hairline. Po had a stringy beard and moustache, both bearing the tale of his recent breakfast: sweet bun powdered with white sugar and cinnamon. The drink from the well had dislodged but not removed the crumbs. At thirty-eight years of age, Po cut a paunchy figure—soft and apparently harmless. Stepping off the mossy stairs that led up to the old well, Po sauntered into the early morning crowds. As he walked, the nonnchalance of his previous posturing faded, replaced now by a taut, alert readiness. This was Po the pickpocket—a professional beginning his «day at the office.» Drawing shamelessly on the tracking skills he had acquired through his long years of study as a Mayanabi Nomad, Po decided to take a closer look at something interesting moving down the far side of the street. Po grinned. A veiled Tammirring in black was an uncommon sight in Speakinghast. Only widows wore black and only then in the villages. If this woman were village bred, she was probably ignorant of city street smarts. Po twirled the tip of his limp mustache, his blue eyes twinkling. He congratulated himself on the easiness of the mark in front of him and wondered where the Tammi pigeon wore her purse. Humming softly, Po decided to find out. Jumping cracks and potholes in the street, Podiddley of Brindlsi merrily ran to mug one of Rimble's Contrarywise Nine—and Trickster's own daughter. Using the crush of the marketplace crowd to his advantage, Po bumped into Kelandris. In the midst of regaining his balance, Po «fanned» Kel—felt her pockets—proffering heartfelt apologies. His exploration had been successful; Kelandris carried something that felt like a purse in the left pocket of her black robe. Kelandris, who had permitted no one to touch her—sexually or otherwise—since the beating in Suxonli, swore at Po and ordered him out of her way. As had been her habit for the past sixteen years, Kelandris spoke in verse. Podiddley listened to her uneasily. Perhaps this black pigeon was mad. He calculated Kel's height, guessing accurately that she stood at a formidable six-feet-four. Better make this quick, he decided. Po continued to offer Kel his apologies. He did it so infuriatingly well that Kelandris never felt Podiddley slip his right hand into her robe pocket. He filched the contents and turned to walk away. Then he froze. Had he heard what he thought he had heard? Kelandris repeated herself softly, laughing all the while: «Little man, I'm your bane. Little man, I bring you pain. How cheap is life when quartered by a knife?» Podiddley swallowed. Turning around slowly, all of his Mayanabi and streetwise senses alert, Po smiled cooly at Crazy Kel. Po carried an Asilliwir akatikki in his belt, but judging by the deft way Kelandris played with the knife in her hand, he doubted he'd get it to his mouth in time. Still, he decided to try. Feigning alarm at something unseen approaching Kelandris from behind, Po pulled his akatikki free. Kelandris bought Po's distraction briefly. She started to look over her shoulder. Changing her mind, however, she whirled on Po, her knife already sailing toward her intended target. Kelandris, like Po, was capable of split-second action; her survival on more than one occasion had depended on it. Po yelped with surprise, his right hand now bloody. The loaded akatikki fell to his feet. Taking instant advantage of Po's disbelief, Kelandris moved on the little thief. She crushed the akatikki with the heel of her black boot, retrieved her knife from Po's torn flesh and punched him soundly in the solar plexus. As Po gasped for air and doubled over in pain, Kelandris calmly slipped her right hand inside Po's left pocket and plucked his purse—unaware that Po carried something of hers in his right pocket. Podiddley, for his part, never felt the theft. His entire attention was focused on the powerful left-handed grip that Crazy Kel had on his raggedy-man tunic. Kelandris yanked Po toward her dark veils. Standing nearly a foot and a half taller than the little Asilliwir, Kelandris literally lifted Po into the air. Laughing again, Kel said, «The blood's clean, but the knife is not. Let flesh turn green with stinky rot!» Without further ceremony, Kelandris threw Podiddley against the wall of a nearby house. She whirled away from him, her black veil fluttering wildly in the sudden autumn breeze. Podiddley sank to his knees, his heart pounding. He cradled his right hand painfully, trying to gauge the extent of the damage. Bone showed through the bloody pulp. Swearing, Podiddley decided the damage was beyond his ability to dress. Especially if the knife had been dipped in poison or anything equally as bad. Po staggered to his feet, his solar plexus in almost as much distress as his bloody hand. Turning west on Khutub Street, Po took his hurts to the best healer he knew: the Irreverent Old Doogat of Suf. Two blocks away, Crazy Kel let out a cry of surprised rage. She had just discovered the loss of her purse. Wheeling around, Kelandris doubled back the way she had just come. She arrived at the wall where she had left Podiddley to find him gone. Swearing, Kelandris lifted her veil partially and smelled the ground where Podiddley had squatted in pain. Using the keen senses of her Mythrrim heritage, Kelandris picked up the scent of not only Po's freshly spilled blood but also of his unmistakably bad personal hygiene. Moving swiftly, Crazy Kel caught sight of Po just as he opened the front door to Doogat's Pipe and Tobacco Bazaar. Po let himself in with difficulty. Kelandris hesitated, then ducked into a nearby alley to wait for Po to reemerge from the little Asilliwir shop. Sudden movement caught her eye; a bright autumn leaf drifted lazily down the street toward her. The leaf pirouetted nine times, then without warning, it lifted high into the air and blew across an adjacent cobblestone avenue. Kelandris watched the leaf as it disappeared around the corner. The woman in black shivered unconsciously. Chapter Twenty-Nine Doogat hung a «Temporarily Closed» sign in the window of his pipe and tobacco shop. While he went to get his green medicine bag, Po fidgeted. Doogat could be a ruthless physician, his cures equal in severity to the occasional harshness he employed as a Mayanabi Master. Po swallowed. There was this certain jar full of the nastiest antiseptic— Po's eyes widened as Doogat returned to the back of the shop; Doogat was carrying a clear jar filled with liquid that looked black. Po got to his feet, his face paling. «Is that what I think it is?» Doogat started laughing. «You big coward— «Now, Doogs—now put that down!» cried Po, starting to edge around the small table in Doogat's kitchen. Doogat uncorked the bottle, his amused eyes as dark as the antiseptic he held. Po squealed and made a beeline for the back door. Doogat neatly intercepted him, and, grabbing his arm, doused the knife wound generously. Po howled with pain, tears streaming from his eyes. Pulling away from Doogat—who let him go—Po cursed Doogat, Doogat's family (whoever they were), the Mayanabi, and every Greatkin he could think of. Doogat recorked the bottle. «Feel better?» «NO!» bellowed the little thief. Doogat rolled his eyes and put on a pot for tea. «Sit down,» he said, pointing to an empty chair. «I'll make you something comforting now.» «You wouldn't know how,» Po retorted. Doogat decided to change the subject. Self-pity never helped anyone heal. Glancing again at the gaping hole in Po's hand, Doogat nodded imperceptibly. Po would need stitches. The Mayanabi reached for a blue jar over his wood-burning stove. He unscrewed the lid and smelled the medicinal mixture of herbs inside. They were fresh enough to use. Grabbing
a small handful, Doogat put some in the strainer he'd need for Po's mug. Closing the blue jar, Doogat set it back on the shelf. «What're you doing?» asked the little Asilliwir, his expression suspicious. He had been watching Doogat's movements out of the corner of his eye. «Making you some baneberry tea.» «That's a tranquilizer, Doogat. Why do I need a tranquilizer?» Po sounded extremely nervous. «I have to clean up your hand, Po.» Po scowled and said nothing. There was no point in contradicting Doogat. Po was certain that if he fought Doogat, Doogat would win. He always did, it seemed. Po reached for a piece of fruit on a platter in the middle of the kitchen table. Doogat slapped his good hand gently, shaking his head. «You want to feel the stitches? No? Then, drink baneberry on an empty stomach.» Po swore and slumped in his chair. Suddenly remembering that he had a stolen purse in his pocket, he pulled it out and set it in front of him. He hoped there were a lot of silies in it—or the Tammirring equivalent. This morning's «easy mark» had probably taken him off the streets for at least a week. Po opened Kel's black drawstring pouch. Reaching inside, he froze. Feeling the contents again, he let out a small cry of frustration. He pulled his hand out, holding a string of black glass beads. «Shit,» he said. The sudden clatter of breaking ceramic startled the little thief. Doogat was never clumsy. Po turned to look at his Mayanabi Master in surprise. Doogat was staring at the black beads in Po's hand. «Where did you get those?» asked Doogat, his voice a whisper. Po put the beads on the table. «My day's take. Why?» Doogat walked slowly over to where Po sat. He picked up the beads, his hand trembling. «I lost a set like these once. A long time ago. I thought they were gone forever.» «You sure these are yours?» asked Po, fascinated by Doogat's reaction. He had never seen Doogat lose emotional control over hing. «Could they be yours?» Doogat peered at one of the beads. Po got up to see what the Mayanabi was doing. Doogat showed him the tiny markings on of the glass pieces. Pointing to the entire string of beads, Doogat said, «In the commonlang of your people, Po—these would be called runes. My people have a different name for them—we call them Kindrasul.» Po said nothing, hoping Doogat would continue. This was the first time Po had ever heard Doogat mention his draw. Po, who Asilliwir and clannish by nature, had a strong interest in all things genealogical. Proud of his own family lineage, the little thief had often wished that Doogat would let him trace his. It was Po's opinion that Doogat spent too much time alone. He also felt that Doogat's strictness as a Mayanabi teacher was the result of Doogat's lack of experience with a large, close family. Po was certain that Doogat was an only child—not spoiled, mind you, but certainly isolated. Doogat fingered the single bead in his hand, reading the markings by touch. He smiled. Turning to Po, he said quietly, «These are mine. They have my door on them.» «Door?» Doogat frowned, thinking of a suitable translation for the concept of a Mythrric «door of remembrance.» He set the beads down on the table and went to fetch Po's medicinal tea, still turning the problem over in his mind. As he poured boiling water into the strainer over Po's mug, Doogat said, «A door is a place of entry—and exit. It's a threshold of exchange. A place of meeting. Every mind has such a place in it. Every mind can open and shut. When my people work with the Kindrasul they open themselves to certain kinds of information—messages. But they can only do this by using their own personal—uh—access code. Their own door.» Doogat handed Po the mug full of baneberry. «The glass in a string of Kindrasul is alive. Psychically sensitive. It can be impressed with the—uh—feeling tone of the person whose beads they are. This particular string will only open for me.» Doogat paused. «Drink up, Po. I can't keep the shop closed all day.» Po drank the bitter tea reluctantly. Doogat poured himself a regular cup of black tea then joined the little thief at the table. Picking up the beads once more, Doogat shook his head. «Rimble-Rimble. I've no idea where I even lost these. What did the person look like—the one you stole from?» Po shrugged. «Never saw her face.» Doogat sniffed the glass beads idly, not expecting to recognize the scent of the woman who had previously owned the beads. Doogat froze. Momentarily forgetting that Po was in the room with him, Doogat reacted to Kel's body scent like a cat that has just discovered a female of its own kind in heat. Doogat, who was fighting hard not to turn into Zendrak, let loose with a mournful wail. Podiddley was so startled by the animal-like behavior of his Mayanabi Master that he pushed back from the table, upsetting his own chair. He landed in a painful heap on the stone floor of the little tobacco shop. Exposed nerves and bruised bone screamed at him, and Po swore in agony. Cradling his hurt hand, Po leaned against the wall, his face breaking into a sweat. Doogat knelt beside him hastily. «You all right?» asked the older man. Po sucked in his breath and whispered, «I was about to ask you that.» As the bells in the Great Library campanile rang ten bell-morn, Fasilla, Aunt, and Yafatah drove through the west gate of Speakinghast. Handing Yafatah the forged pass Aunt had made for them, Fasilla said, «Doon't lose that, child. We'll need it again should them Saams stop us for anything. They have strict curfews in this town. And strict laws. Here—put it in me travelling pack.» Yafatah nodded and did as she was told. The young Tammirring girl had all but recovered from her bout with «landdraw fever.» On the morning of the fourth day when crossing out of Jinnjirri and into southern Saambolin, Yafatah had suddenly regained her mental composure—and Kelandris had lost hers. Shaken and disoriented, Yafatah had cried for hours. She had felt a sadness and a loneliness that she could not understand or forget. Despite the queerness of her shared rapport with Kelandris, in an odd way Yafatah had valued it. She had never known another Tammirring, and the psychic intimacy she had experienced with Kel had shown her what being among her own draw might be like. Ever since that morning, Yafatah had hoped to meet up with travelling Tammirring. So far, she had been disappointed. It seemed that the Tammirring kept to themselves—and to their northern native land. Yafatah sighed, scanning the crowds in front of her for veiled women and men. Suddenly, Yafatah broke into a smile. «There be Tammi here,» she whispered softly, pointing to a group of slowly moving university students. Their colorful veils fluttered with the animation of their conversation. «Look, Ma—me own kind.» Fasilla, who had been feeling that Yafatah was growing stranger and stranger by the day, responded curtly. «There they be, Ya. And there they stay. We havena' come to this city so you can socialize. We must see the Master Doogat. When that be done, we'll go home to Asilliwir.» Yafatah's face fell. She turned away from her mother and refused to speak to her for the rest of the drive to Doogat's. Fasilla put up with this only barely. At the moment, Fasilla felt annoyed with everyone—especially her good friend, Aunt. Some days ago, Fasilla had wanted to turn back at the pass through the Feyborne Mountains. Just as she had reined her roans to a stop, Aunt glared at her in obvious disapproval. So Fasilla had continued driving her on toward Speakinghast. Fasilla sighed wearily. Wending her way down the crowded Asilliwir Quarter streets, she felt quite certain that this whole trip had been a terrific waste of time. Besides, Yafatah was well now. Or mostly well. The child didn't need to see the man named Doogat. At least, that was the way Fasilla saw it. «Doon't you want to go home?» Fasilla asked her daughter suddenly. Yafatah shrugged, her young mind stimulated by the bustle and enormity of the cultural capital surrounding them. At the moment the city seemed like an oasis. Here she could learn of other draws, make Tammi friends, eat strange foods. And ride in a Saambolin happincabby, she thought, watching one trot past. A tear of yearning slipped down Yafatah's cheek. Without answering her mother, the Tammirring girl pulled her red veil down over her face and black hair. She wanted to stay in this city. She wanted to make it her home. After several wrong turns, and several stops for directions, Fasilla, Yafatah, and Aunt arrived at Doogat's Pipe and Tobacco Bazaar. Bringing the roans to a standstill, Fasilla handed the reins to Aunt and hopped to the ground. The Asilliwir woman read the «Temporarily Closed» sign in the window and swore. Rubbing her neck tiredly, she decided to take the wagon to the nearest caravan park. Once camped, the three travellers would be free
to scout out the public baths in this section of town. Fasilla smiled. First things first, she decided, stepping off the front porch to the little tobacco shop. Climbing back on the wagon, Fasilla said, to both Aunt and Yafatah, «It do be closed right now. I doon't want to wait. Shall we find a place to camp? We do be fierce dirty—what say you to a hot bath, child?» Yafatah nodded mutely. Aunt frowned, staring at Doogat's shuttered shop. Her Mayanabi senses told her he was in there. They also told her that Doogat did not wish to be disturbed. Later, she thought at him silently. One of us will return later. Fine, came the answering reply. As the Asilliwir wagon drove away, Kelandris stepped out in the street. She watched Fasilla's wagon disappear around the comer, her expression wary and angry. Scowling under her veil, Crazy Kel returned to her hiding place. If the Asilliwir thief didn't come out of the shop soon, she might have to go in after him. He had her pretty thing. He had her special, pretty thing. And she wanted it back. Tree was the next to arrive at Doogat's. He had come to visit Mab. Carrying a bouquet of fresh flowers in his hand, he opened the back door of Doogat's kitchen. He was surprised to find both Po and Doogat inside. He wondered why no one was tending the shop. Then Tree saw Po's wounded hand. Eyeing the sewing needle and roll of bandages on the kitchen table, Tree muttered, «Maybe I should come back later.» «Nonsense,» said Po gaily, he was feeling very good and very relaxed thanks to the baneberry tea. The little Asilliwir beamed at the Jinnjirri and offered him a ringside seat. Tree declined it, starting up the stairs that led to Mab's room. As Tree put his hand on the banister, Doogat asked, «Did you happen to see anyone in black hanging around out there?» Tree shook his head. «Should I have?» Po broke into peals of laughter. Patting Doogat on the back with his good hand, the thief winked at Tree and said, «Doogs thinks there's a ghost from his past haunting the place. Thinks she means to do him in, too. Can you imagine that?» continued Po. «Doogat's never taken by surprise.» Po giggled. «Would be fun to see it happen. Just once,» he added hastily as Doogat picked up the jar of black antiseptic again. Tree inclined his head at the stairs. «Mab up?» «Don't think so,» replied Po. Then, seeing the flowers in Tree's nand, he added, «Now isn't that sweet. Flowers for the Piedmerri virgin. Course nobody believes that anymore. Cobeth—» «I do!» snapped Tree. Po shrugged. «Cobeth makes his moves pretty fast—» Doogat intervened at this point. «Shut, up, Po.» Then, without warning the little Asilliwir, he poured more antiseptic on Po's knife wound. Po's shrieks of dismay sent Tree running up the stairs three steps at a time. Tree had been coming to visit Mab faithfully ever since the party at Rhu's, bringing her little gifts and news from the house. For the past three weeks, Tree had worked hard to convince the little Piedmerri that all Jinnjirri weren't bad. This had been Doogat's idea. Tree wasn't sure if he was succeeding or not. Furthermore, in the past two days, Tree had noticed something disturbing in the Piedmerri's general mood. Tree wasn't altogether sure what it was that disturbed him. Mostly, Mab just seemed empty in some way. Empty and yearning to be filled up. But by what? Tree shook his head as he approached Mab's closed door. Tree hoped holovespa wasn't addictive. It never occurred to the Jinnjirri that Cobeth might be. Tree knocked softly. «Mab? You up?» «Come in,» said a dull voice. Tree opened the door, thrusting the flowers in front of him. When Mab didn't respond with exclamations or thanks, Tree poked his head into her room. The windows were shut, the drapes drawn. The heavy, oriental tapestries hanging on the walls made the room seem smaller. Almost claustrophobic today, thought Tree uneasily. Mab sat on the corner of her single bed, her shoulders hunched, her expression distant. «You okay?» asked Tree, coming into the room and squatting beside Mab. Mab said nothing. Tree's green hair turned a little gray. «Mab?» He touched her cheek gently. She responded by turning away from him. Tree licked his lips worriedly. He had never seen Mab so depressed. Tree sat down beside the Piedmerri, laying the flowers in his lap. «Did you have bad dreams?» Mab nodded. Tree took a deep breath. «About Cobeth?» Mab nodded. «He raped me.» Remembering Po's jabs, Tree took Mab literally, his voice horrified. «He did? At the party?» Mab finally looked at Tree. She shook her head. «Not at Rhu's. In my dream.» She laughed, the sound of it brittle. «But maybe psychic rape counts as much as physical?» Her eyes looked to him for confirmation. Tree shrugged. He had never heard of a psychic rape. «Don't know. You could ask a Tammi,» he added lamely. Mab shook her head. Then, crawling toward the wall next to her bed, Mab left Tree where he was. Picking up her pillow, Mab stuffed it across her belly and sat in a hunched position. A silent tear fell down her cheek, her eyes staring at nothing. It scared Tree to see Mab like this. She didn't look altogether sane. He decided to go and fetch Doogat. Leaving the flowers he had brought for Mab on the bed, Tree hurriedly left the room. Tree reached the downstairs just as Doogat was finishing bandaging Po's stitched hand. Doogat looked up as Tree walked into the kitchen. «What's wrong?» asked Doogat immediately. Tree gestured helplessly. «Mab's so sad. She's sitting curled up in a little ball on her bed. And she'll hardly talk to me.» Doogat frowned. Then, telling Po to open the shop and handle the till, Doogat followed Tree upstairs. The Mayanabi Master opened the door to Mab's room slowly. Mab hadn't moved from her spot against the wall. Doogat motioned for Tree to come in and shut the door. Tree did so. Doogat got on the bed with Mab while Tree watched. Mab gave no sign of recognition to Doogat, her eyes unblinking. Doogat grunted. Reaching for Mab, he pulled her away from the wall toward him. Mab didn't fight him. Holding Mab in his arms, he began speaking to her softly about the good things in the world. He told her about kindness and hope. As he continued, Mab began to shake. Doogat smoothed her hair. This tiny gesture of caring undid Mab completely. Sobbing, she buried her face in Doogat's chest, begging Doogat to keep Cobeth away from her. Tree stared, taken aback by the wrenching sound of her weeping. Tree had cried once like that. Tree shivered, not wanting to recall the circumstances that had produced this much pain in him. Tree turned away, forcing his mood to change, forcing his frosted hair to shift to green. «Cobeth can't hurt you now, Mab,» said Doogat gently. «He can!» she cried. «I can't keep him out at night. There's a door open somewhere. There's a place—» Doogat shut his eyes, searching Mab's psyche to see if what she was saying was true. His Mayanabi senses scanned her emotional body. Doogat grunted softly. There was a small place, a small back door where someone could slip in against Mab's will. Doogat poured some of his understanding of goodness into her wounded psyche. As Mab's fragile emotions steadied, her body relaxed in Doogat's arms, the fear leaving her eyes. «That's better, hmm?» asked Doogat with a smile. Mab nodded, her breathing becoming more regular. «Good.» Putting his left hand on the back of her neck, Doogat asked, «Do you trust me, Mab?» She nodded. «All right,» said the Mayanabi Master. «I'm going to put you to sleep now, Mab—without herbs. Do you think you might let me do this?» Mab smiled and shut her eyes. Before she had taken the next breath, Mab was sound asleep. Doogat removed his hand from the back of her neck. Lowering Mab to the bed, he pulled a blanket over her body. Tree's jaw dropped. He had never seen anyone put someone to sleep like that—or so swiftly. «What—what did you do?» Doogat smiled. «It's an old Mayanabi trick.» Tree pressed him for more information, but Doogat simply smiled. Gesturing toward the door, Doogat indicated that he wanted Tree to come downstairs with him. Outside in the street, Kelandris watched people come and go from Doogat's shop. Her hand clenched; she wanted her black beads. Now. She could see Po from where she stood in the alley. She felt relieved that he was still inside—she had begun to ler. Just as Kel had decided to find out if the shop had a back door, Po had removed the sign from the window and opened the shop for business again. Now the only problem was the matter of ambushing Po while customers stood at the counter. Kelandris crossed her arms over her chest, feeling uneasy about the prospect. Kelandris disliked small, enclosed spaces. They made her feel panicky. Sometimes, she would break out in a sweat and remember things she didn't want to remember—especially in a crowd. Kelandris continued to watch the
steady give and take of Doogat's clientele as she considered the logistics of staging a successful mugging. The more she looked at the size of the tiny tobacco store, the more she felt reluctant to enter it. Kelandris swore. She wanted her pretty thing back. She wanted it back real bad. Without it, Kel knew she would have those incest dreams about Zendrak again. They had stopped as soon as she had found the string of Kindrasul when she had crossed the Feyborne Mountains on her way to Speakinghast. For one hundred and eighteen years, Zendrak's Kindrasul had lain hidden in a rocky cleft of one of the mountain's steep crags. Trickster's Emissary had dropped it accidently when he had returned from the Everywhen on the back of Further—right into a particularly violent wind and lightning storm. The noise had been so deafening and the wind so strong that Zendrak had neither heard nor felt the loss of his glass beads. Kelandris had nearly missed seeing the beads in the cleft. But just as she walked past, her knife fell out of her sleeve. The knife had never done this before, and, in fact, due to the snug fit of the sleeve, Kelandris had thought the knife was impossible to lose. Frowning, she had leaned over to pick it up and been distracted by the glint of something black and shiny off to her right. Forgetting her knife for the moment, she pulled the string of Kindrasul free from the dirt and loose rock. Smiling, Kelandris had attributed her good fortune to having the luck of the Trickster that day. Actually, Kel owed her thanks to Phebene. As soon as the Mayanabi master had closed the door to Mab's room, Doogat offered Tree some bread and honey in the kitchen. Tree accepted, eyeing the fresh brown loaf and golden honey hungrily. Doogat put a slab of sweet butter on the table and handed Tree a knife. As Doogat brewed more tea, he asked Tree what news he had from the Kaleidicopia. «Mostly bad, I'm afraid,» said Tree, cutting off a large slice of bread. «You know, if I didn't know better, I'd say that Cobeth had it in for everyone at the house. I was thinking about it on my way over here this morning. I mean, when you look at it—Cobeth's hurt every single house member. Some of them twice over. Like Rowen.» Doogat grunted. «I can't believe no one has proven Cobeth stole Rowen's Trickster materials from the Great Library, I would've thought it easy—considering he had Rowen's library card in his possession on the night of Rhu's party. Surely, you've got probable cause to search Cobeth's lodgings. Even the Saambolin agree to that.» Tree shrugged. «Yeah, Doogs—but you forget. No one at the house wants the Saambolin Guildguard to know any of us were there on that particular night.» Tree spread honey on his bread. «How Cobeth managed to come out smelling like a frigging rose, I'll never understand. Timmer says there were all sorts of drugs in Cobeth's desk. He must've dumped them down the garderobe—or had the biggest hangover ever known.» Doogat smiled. «Cobeth is clever.» «Yeah. The sonofabitch. I just wish he'd get caught once.» «Maybe he will,» said Doogat idly. Tree sighed. «I know Timmer would like that. After this morning, she's ready to kill Cobeth with her bare hands.» Doogat poured cups of black currant tea. Ever since his picnic Phebene, he had developed a liking for this particular flavor. The rich, fruity smell sweetened the air. «So,» said Doogat quietly. «What's Cobeth done to Timmer?» Tree chewed his mouthful of bread and honey. Swallowing, he said, «Oh—just broken up her musical quintet. Nothing major, understand. Just Timmer's livelihood.» Doogat narrowed his eyes. «Explain.» Tree shrugged. «Seems Cobeth has a need for a theatrical orchestra now. And he's handpicking the members himself. As far as I know, Cobeth hates folk music. You should've seen the stinks he raised against Timmer when the Dunnsung would practice out in the studio.» «So you think he's intentionally breaking up her band—to punish her?» Tree sighed, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. «I've no idea, Doogat. But Cobeth fired me from The Merry Pricksters for no better reason than that.» Tree bit off another bite of bread. Chewing thoughtfully, Tree added, «Neath—I don't know, Doogs. Maybe Cobeth's still taking it out on Janusin. And we're just catching the fallout from the fireworks.» «Maybe,» said Doogat quietly. At that moment, Po came bursting into the kitchen. Pointing to the windows in the front of the shop, he exclaimed, «She's out there, Doogat! The one who had the beads! The woman in black is out in the street!» Doogat jumped to his feet, ordering Tree to hail a happincabby. «Have it brought around back. Po you come help me with Mab. Then all three of you return to the Kaleidicopia. Remain there, please. Tell Barlimo what has happened. Tell her the ninth has arrived. She'll understand.» In a few moments, Doogat had completely cleared the little shop of customers, visitors, and residents. Doogat put the sign that read «Temporarily Closed» back in the window. Changing his blue robe for green, Doogat's features swiftly turned into Zendrak's. Then, taking a deep breath, Zendrak let Kelandris see him. Chapter Thirty Kelandris stared at the familiar face looking at her through the window of the tobacco shop. Her body stiffened, her skin breaking out in an ice-cold sweat. She knew that face. She had seen that face a thousand times in her dreams. Kelandris raised her hand timidly as if to reach for Zendrak's raven-black hair. The shock of seeing Zendrak so close to her momentarily cleared Kel's mind of confusion and rage. «Oh, my dearest love—» she whispered. Then Trickster's recent sabotage set in. Certain that Zendrak was the one who had betrayed her in Suxonli, Kel's open hand tightened into a fist. Letting out a cry of fury, Kelandris pulled her knife and ran up the stairs. Zendrak opened the door for her. Kelandris entered cautiously. Zendrak saw the knife and backed up, his stance ready, his expression unreadable. Kelandris smiled cruelly under her veil. Sniffing the smell of fresh tobacco mixtures, Kelandris quickly scanned the size of the little store. She noted the hanging beads separating the shop from the kitchen in the back and the stairs leading to the second floor of Doogat's residence. Wondering where the little Asilliwir thief was, Kel circled Zendrak slowly. Zendrak made no move to stop her, watching Kelandris intently. The tension between them was extreme. Zendrak's heart pounded, every sense alert. The question was when Kel would attack him—not if. Kelandris chuckled. Zendrak flinched. Her laugh was the laugh of a madwoman. And yet it was controlled. Zendrak swallowed, aware perhaps for the first time of how extremely dangerous Kelandris was to him. He was mortal; he could be killed. And so could she. Without warning, Kelandris moved on him. Thrusting from underneath with her knife, Kelandris aimed for Zendrak's abdomen. Zendrak responded instantly. Bringing his right hand in close to his body, he slammed it against Kel's left wrist and knocked the weapon wide of its target. Surprised by the speed and accuracy of Zendrak's block but not bested, Kelandris maintained her hold on the knife. Seeing this, Zendrak continued to twist to the right, grabbing Kel's weapon hand. They faced the same direction now, her chest against his back. Kelandris seized the chance to crush Zendrak's windpipe with her free arm. As she tightened against his neck, Zendrak elbowed Kelandris viciously in the solar plexus. Kel automatically folded against Zendrak's broad back. Zendrak pulled her trapped left arm forward and brought her knuckles down hard across his knee. Prepared to break Kel's arm if she refused to relinquish the knife, he slammed her hand against his knee a second and third time. Finally, the pain caused Kel's fingers to open. The knife clattered to the floor. Before Kelandris could regain her balance, Zendrak dropped her over his hip. Kel hit the floor soundly, landing on her back. Momentarily dazed, she made no move to get up. Zendrak took advantage of Kel's brief immobilization and applied a variation of the Mayanabi trick he had used on Mab. Straddling Kelandris, Zendrak put a knee on each arm and reached for the back of Kel's neck with both hands. As soon as he made contact with her skin, Kel's body entered a state of light paralysis. Kelandris swore, her eyes rolling upward under her veil. She fought to remain conscious. Zendrak shifted his weight, simultaneously freeing her arms and deepening the psychological rapport between them. Kel's body relaxed despite her overwhelming desire to throttle the man leaning over her. Unable to move an inch—much less make a decent fist—Kelandris fought Zendrak for mental autonomy. And succeeded. Taken aback by the weight and discipline of Kel's will, Zendrak redoubled his efforts to disarm Kelandris psychically as well as physically. He pressed h
er for surrender and pressed her hard. Kelandris sucked in her breath, hating Zendrak. Attacking him with the full brunt of the rage she felt for Yonneth, Kelandris managed to break the mental hold Zendrak had on her. Screaming at Zendrak to stop touching her, she struggled to free her head from his hands. Zendrak maintained contact, his body sweating, his concentration fierce. Terrified by the merciless gaze in Zendrak's dark eyes, Kel raked his cheek with the sharp fingernails of her left hand. She drew blood. Zendrak winced but said nothing. Kelandris extended her fingers then curved them like the claws of the Mythrrim she was. She raised her hand to swipe at Zendrak again, a low growl rumbling deep in her throat. Zendrak answered in kind, snapping at the air in front of her veiled face. Startled, Kelandris stared at him, her heart pounding. Mythrrim faced Mythrrim in silence. Zendrak shifted his weight, the collar of his green tunic pulling slightly to the side. Kel's breath caught. Something black and shiny hung around his neck. Kelandris reached tentatively for Zendrak's obsidian beads. Zendrak released his physical hold on Kel's neck and smacked her hand away from the Kindrasul. Kel tried again. Zendrak growled at her, his dark eyes hooded and angry. Kelandris started to attack him, arching her back. Zendrak slapped her face, knocking her against the floor. Kelandris shook her head dazedly. Now she spoke, her voice desperate and pleading. «My pretty thing. Give it!» Noting with interest that Kelandris had momentarily dropped her habitual rhyme of sixteen years, Zendrak said evenly, «My pretty thing.» Kel's voice became more anxious. «Give it. Give it back. If you love, give it back.» Zendrak frowned, momentarily startled by Kel's inclusion of the word love in their conversation. He noted she had said, «If you love, give it back.» Not, «If you love me.» The first statement was typical of Greatkin Phebene, the second of Trickster. Cautiously, Zendrak asked, «Would you like some tea?» He wondered how much baneberry he'd need to use in order to knock her out. Kelandris shook her head. «Not me. T is for thee but not for me. Phebene sez: tea for two, cakes and kin—odds are great, Rimble won't win.» Zendrak said nothing for a moment, reassessing the situation. If Phebene were speaking through Kelandris at present, she might be telling him to disarm Kel through something other than dirty tricks. Quite a challenge. He turned back to the veiled woman lying below him on the floor. Changing his tactics, Zendrak pulled the Kindrasul free from his neck, watching Kel's left hand clench and unclench with greed. Holding the obsidian beads just out of her reach, Zendrak said, «On the other hand, I can see how much my pretty thing means to you. And you've already taken such good care of it, yes?» «Yes. Keeps bad dreams away. Give,» she added, trying to grab the black glass beads from his grasp. Zendrak held the Kindrasul above his head. «I'll give the beads to you, Kelandris. But only on one condition—that you stop fighting me right now. If you don't, I'll hide my pretty thing where you'll never find it.» Kelandris snarled at him under her veil. She made a move to sit up. Zendrak knocked her flat, a terrible growl building in his throat. He meant business. Flexing his fingers in full view of Kelandris, Zendrak let her see the length of his own talon-nails. Kel hesitated then grabbed for the beads again. Zendrak let loose with a fearsome roar, all seven sets of his Mythrrim vocal cords vibrating. Ceramic and glass jars in the back of the shop shook. A few shattered. Kelandris reacted with blind panic and swiped at Zendrak's open neck. As before, she drew blood. This time, Zendrak decided to retaliate. Throwing Kel backward, he shredded her veil. Kelandris howled, putting her hands in front of her face. Zendrak punched her soundly in her unprotected diaphragm. Kelandris groaned, trying desperately to turn her belly away from him. Zendrak prevented her, forcing her to concede dominance to him. Animal to animal, Kelandris understood. Swearing and sobbing, she begged him for the Kindrasul. It was as if she were pleading for his mercy. Zendrak listened to her in silence, trying to assess the true level of Kel's sincerity. After all, like himself, Kelandris was Trickster's own child. Deciding that her tears were genuine, Zendrak gripped the Kindrasul tightly in his hand and flooded the string of beads with the comprehension and compassion of his five hundred years of life. Then he handed them to Kelandris. With a small cry of relief, the woman in black clasped the Kindrasul to her heart. She was so elated by the return of «her pretty thing» that she never felt Zendrak slide his hands around the back of her neck again. Kel shut her eyes, drinking in the emotional warmth of the beads she held. As the true depth of Zendrak's affection filled her body with the sounding of Zendrak's own emotional feeling-tone, Trickster's Emissary quickly sneaked in the back door of Kel's injured mind. Once there, Zendrak pressed Kelandris for the memory of a certain forest glen on the outskirts of Suxonli Village. And the love they had made there. Kelandris opened her eyes, her expression startled through her torn veil. Realizing that Zendrak had breached her psychic defenses, she blasted him with the raw power of her fury. Zendrak stood his ground. Kel's attack failed. The loving power with which Zendrak had invested the Kindrasul had opened Kel's heart briefly. Zendrak only needed a psychic toehold to successfully scale Kel's rage. Now he had one. Kelandris whimpered in distress. She twisted and untwisted the beads in her hand anxiously, her eyes focused on the brown rafters in the ceiling of the tobacco shop. She felt Zendrak's continued, steady intrusion into the darkest memories of her life. Kel gritted her teeth. Zendrak picked his way carefully through her psyche. Kelandris tensed. Zendrak could feel Kel's terror of Suxonli's judgement against her through his fingers. Coaxing Kelandris to match the steady rhythm of his breathing, Trickster's Emissary reminded Trickster's he of all that had preceded the actual revel in Suxonli. Kelandris strained against Zendrak's gentle hands as he probed her neck muscles for a deeper, more personal entry point into her hopelessness. Thorns of Kel's despair cut him. He ignored their pull. He had found what he was looking for: Kel's memory of her love for him. As he edged toward the memory, preparing to make Kel conscious of it again, he noticed Kel's grip on the Kindrasul tighten. Without warning, a moving wall of fear slammed into Zendrak's heart. Cursing Kel for fighting him, Zendrak struggled to maintain his sense of direction in Kel's emotional labyrinth. Pain stung him from all sides. No matter what Zendrak tried, Kel's fear remained unyielding. Taking a deep breath, Zendrak lowered his head briefly, frustration and exhaustion evident in his dark eyes. He cursed Trickster. And again. He did not want to force Kelandris to open to him. Nor did he wish to cram his superior mental training down her throat. Her independence was precious to him as was her formidable fighting spirit. He loved her for her faults as much as for her strengths. Zendrak's dark eyes swam unexpectedly with tears. He needed a way to regain her trust. The memory of the joy they had shared in a forest glen in Suxonli was the only certain ground that he personally held with Kelandris. And it looked like Yonneth had stolen even that. The cruelty of this enraged Zendrak. Feeling at a loss, Zendrak hesitated. There had to be another way through Kel's fear other than by sheer force of will. Zendrak ran through his entire repertoire of tricks, deciding that if he found no other solution than force, he would stop where he was; he would press Kelandris no farther. No matter what Trickster said about it. Zendrak bit his lip very well aware of what would happen if he failed with Kelandris here. Very simply put: the world as he knew it would come to an end. Kelandris was a member of Rimble's ennead, his Nine. Without her, the other eight were powerless. Kel was the ground wire for the psychic charge of the turning ceremony which the Nine would dance in Speakinghast in a few days time. If the Nine did not turn, civilization would falter. There would be no evolutionary leap; Trickster's silent genes would remain silent. And the Greatkin would cease to «matter.» Zendrak swallowed. The temptation to overcome Kel's fear by aggression was tempting. He could've done it as soon as she walked into the little tobacco shop, knife in hand. His was a trained mind, hers was not. Zendrak rolled his eyes. He didn't want the world to end any more than Trickster did. Was the integrity of Kel's psyche worth such a price? Zendrak's hands trembled on the back of Kel's neck. The threat of extinction frightened him. Struggling against his own panic, Zendrak remi
nded himself sternly that he was not Trickster. It was not his responsibility to save or doom the world. He was merely Trickster's Emissary—and a very mortal, fallible one at that. He raised his dark eyes, meeting Kel's scared green ones. Seeing the fear and helplessness in her eyes, his heart broke. «I can't do it,» he whispered. «I can't get through to her. Rimble—you hear me? I can't do it. Find yourself another Emissary.» Zendrak started to pull his hands away from Kel's neck, but was stopped when Trickster's he grabbed his arms and held them close to her body. Zendrak opened his eyes in surprise to find Kelandris staring sternly at him. Greatkin faced Greatkin. Kel's green eyes glittered cooly. Still gripping the Kindrasul in her left hand, she draped the string of beads over both of Zendrak's exposed forearms. Zendrak said nothing, trying to understand the meaning of her action. Suddenly Kel's expression changed. The power of her Greatkin bloodline was replaced by a strange mortal vulnerability. Kel's hold on the Kindrasul intensified. She resembled a drowning person, the beads her lifeline. A lifeline— A smile broke over Zendrak's face slowly. Keeping one hand on the back of Kel's neck, he reached for the Kindrasul. Resting his palm over Kel's fingers, Zendrak dropped his defenses against Kelandris, using the black glass beads from Soaringsea as a universal translator of the ancient trust they shared as Mythrrim. Like a mneumonic cipher, the Kindrasul allowed Zendrak to communicate with Kelandris at a purely non-verbal level. As love often did, thought Zendrak with chagrin. He swore at himself for being so slow-witted. The way through Kel's fear had literally been under his fingertips. Courtesy of Phebene. Zendrak laughed with relief. Kelandris met his eyes shyly, her madness temporarily at bay. A trace of a smile touched her full lips. Zendrak regarded her with undisguised affection. Kelandris looked away abruptly. She felt blinded by the radiance of what she saw in Zendrak's face. After so many years of deprivation, Zendrak's love seared her heart like a blast of light from the noonday sun. Gathering her courage, Kelandris tried to meet his gaze once more, but she found she couldn't. Tears wet her cheeks. Zendrak watched Kelandris in silence, his expression patient. He had waited sixteen years for this day; he could wait a little longer. Zendrak fingered the Kindrasul thoughtfully. Kelandris must have sensed his personal, emotional «door» on the glass when she had first found them and smelled his psychic scent on them as clearly as Zendrak had smelled hers this morning. It was the nature of obsidian from Soaringsea to retain such an impression, regardless of time elapsed. The intense draw from the volcanoes of these northern isles marked everything with an indelible clarity of emotion. Like the igneous rock that spewed out of Soaringsea's lava cones, emotions rose in a Mythrrim from the innermost depths of its being: straight from the core. To a Mythrrim, the emotions of two-legged society seemed muddled and lacking in the crystalline purity of the black glass Zendrak and Kelandris now held in their hands. Zendrak's eyes softened as he looked at Kelandris with renewed respect. A Mythrrim could starve to death on the emotional diet of most two-leggeds. It was a wonder that Kelandris had not. Zendrak took a deep breath and refrained from his desire to take Kelandris in his arms and simply hold her. Although Zendrak was certain that every cell in Kel's body ached for the company and kinship only a Mythrrim could offer her, he also recognized that Kelandris was only temporarily sane. When they let go of the Kindrasul, Kel would be faced with a choice: sanity or madness. Still, thought Zendrak, there was something he could do to help Kelandris. If she would permit him to do so, he could clear away some of the rubble of her two-legged life in Suxonli. Zendrak eased himself off Kel's body. Kneeling beside her now, one hand on her neck and the other still clasping the Kindrasul under Kel's fingers, he drew from his Mayanabi training and reached inside her mind again. Kelandris stiffened, her eyes wary. Zendrak smiled at Kelandris reassuringly, flooding the Kindrasul with peace. Kelandris remained tense, but she did not fight Zendrak as she had done before. Zendrak modulated his breath to match her own and touched Kel's psyche with the skill of the Mayanabi Master that he was. Carefully, cautiously, Zendrak weakened the last of Kel's two-legged ties—what few were left her after the Ritual of Akindo—and strengthened her Mythrrim ones. This was a dangerous psychic surgery, especially if Kelandris refused his help later on—choosing madness over sanity—thereby isolating herself from not only her societal roots but her animal ones as well. Very dangerous, he thought, continuing with the process. Forcing himself to ignore the nervous twinge of his stomach, Zendrak impressed Kel's mind with the wisdom of Mythrrim laws of kinship. Such laws were more ancient and more gracious than any the two-leggeds had yet evolved. Zendrak cut deeper, and Kelandris began to feel very lightheaded. Zendrak spoke quietly to Kel, telling her Mythrrim stories of the Greatkin and the Presence. Kel's body slowly relaxed. Zendrak freed her psyche further. By leaving Kelandris only her Mythrrim heritage to consult, Zendrak hoped to sidestep the laws of Suxonli. If he could literally undercut the potency and legitimacy of Suxonli's Blood Day Rule in Kel's mind, he might be able to minimize Yonneth's damage. Also, by offering Kelandris a taste of ancient Mythrrim loyalty, Zendrak hoped to expose Yonneth's «brotherly love» for the sham that it actually was. Zendrak frowned. Sundering Kelandris from her Tammirring culture would make her utterly dependent on him for a while. After all, other than Kelandris, he was the only Mythrrim walking around in two-legged form at present. Zendrak swallowed. He knew he could handle it. But could she? What if Kelandris perceived such dependence as a threat to her survival? Risky, he thought, considering Kel's current mental instability. Still, Kelandris was his sister—and the child of two Greatkin. Furthermore, she was just plain willful, defiant, and dogged. In short, utterly creative and contrary. Good often came from such traits. He took a deep breath. But so did bad. There was no guarantee this psychic surgery would work. The entire operation rested on the folly of a calculated risk. Worse, the calculated risk banked on a trust engendered by a dimly recalled past love. Zendrak rolled his eyes, preparing to commit himself to Love's Keeping. Zendrak watched Kelandris play with the Kindrasul nervously. Her movements were jerky and her green eyes only marginally lucid. Here goes, he thought without enthusiasm. Then, pressing his fingers into the back of Kel's neck, Zendrak eased the last thread of two-legged morality away from her heart and soul. Closing his eyes, he poured a hundred thousand years of Mythrrim civilization into Kel's psyche. Kelandris shuddered. She started to fight Zendrak but stopped when he triggered her memory of a certain forest glen in Suxonli. Kelandris blinked, her expression disoriented. Time rolled backwards. Chapter Thirty-One Costumes and torchlight! Shrieks and laughing fury! The season was late autumn. Kelandris was seventeen, and the place was Suxonli. This evening, as had been the custom for centuries, the villagers of this small mountain community celebrated the Trickster's Hallows. They called it Rimble's Revel. This was Carnivale and Mardi Gras. This was Trickster's Treat. And an ancient Remembrance. So sing it: ah ya, Rimble! Come, Trickster, come! Be yet again! But beware his back door ways, the thrall of his disrespect! Beware the color of his striped coat, the prick of his maddening sting! Sing it, Yellow-Jacket Yellow! The Wasp flies abroad tonight! Tonight villagers donned masks and honored all unknowns. They must. Tonight the costumed beggar at the door or the nodding hag at the hearth might be Trickster himself come to merry-prank you. Tonight anything could happen. And while the rest of the world prepared for sleep, all Suxonli stirred. Witness a streaming, screaming time! Doors slammed as two hundred villagers swarmed from their mountain homes, the children leading. This was an instinctive exodus, choreographed by the generational hive-mind of Revels past. Here was a clarion call sounded by history and answered in full by the dancing, prancing men and women of Suxonli. Here gathered the Wasp Queen's hive, each member Rimblessah—Trickster blessed and Trickster drunk with wild abandon. The curious and the hedonistic travelled for miles around to join in the ecstatic revelry of Suxonli's wild festival. Strangers smiled at each other under homemade masks of terror. All were eagerly included in the rapacious clowning of this host village. No one was safe from Tri
ckster's Touch tonight. And that was the way everyone wanted it—particularly young Kelandris. Dressed as a hermaphrodite, Kel wore Rimble's yellow and black. Tonight she'd lose her maidenhead to a costumed villager—like every Wasp Queen had done before her. If she conceived, the crops would flourish in the following year. If she didn't, no one would begrudge her a good time. Tonight was sorrow's banishment and joy's release. Voices! Louder! Change or be changed! Dance high, dance hard with the shriekers in the street! Sporting exaggerated breasts, a striped penis sheath standing erect between her legs, Kelandris led the Hive into the village square. Lips buzzed, children laughed. Now the five elderly members of the village council processed. Advancing slowly toward this year's Revel Queen, they carried a large straw wasp on their shoulders. Kelandris pointed to the effigy. She laughed maniacally—as per ritual instruction. Then the Wasp Queen chanted, her young voice piercing the crowd's clamor: Bugaboo you, you old Stingaroo! Sing Rimsah, ya Rimble, Nothing's taboo! On cue, the crowd erupted into giggles and wild hilarity. Tonight Trickster was theirs. Pulled from the Fertile Dark into the revel torchlight, Greatkin Rimble was no longer a thing of terror or reverence. Tonight Trickster was ripped off his Greatkin pedestal, and his form made disposable. He was the Changeable One. Tonight Trickster would perish in the village flames. But set free, his spirit would enter every woman, man, and child. The villagers each wore a masked version of the Great Fool's face, both claiming and buffooning him. Theirs was a serious silliness. The Wasp Queen lifted a torch high and set fire to the idol of Rimble. And for a brief moment of glory, Trickster's gossamer wings fanned the air with light in the harvest scarecrow-wind. And now the children came. They played a pinching tag game called Trickster's Touch. They were Rimble's little stings. Singing the rhyme, chanting the rhyme, and again! Grabbing hands, the village boys and girls snake-spiralled through the adults, shrieking and stomping their feet. They goosed every onlooker, village born or not, and chortled: «Rimble-Rimble!» The older villagers joined in. The snake-spiral swelled in size and speed. The line of masked and costumed bodies undulated like the wave of a wild electrical current. Then the village gave voice. They screamed. This was the signal for departure from the village. As the snake-spiral slowed, the villagers broke hands. Grabbing torches, all Suxonli scampered up the steep mountain path known as the Long Revel Trail. Spooking out the darkness, the torches lit the night with a will-o'-the-wisp beauty that wove a garland of flickering jewels along the black earth shoulders of the Western Feyborne. Kelandris—as per ritual instruction—cut away from the crowd. Heading to a secluded glen, the Wasp Queen waited for the Coins of Coincidence to choose her Trickster lover for the evening. The selection would occur in the center of the old circle of standing-stones high at the upper end of the Long Revel Trail. Selection of the Queen's lover could take hours, reaching a frenzy of drumming and chanting. Such frenzy was necessary. Anyone wanting to embody the King of Deviance—becoming as fertile as Trickster himself during the Rite of Coupling with Rimble's Revel Queen—could only enter the stone circle of ancient monoliths if he heard Trickster call his name. Once called, each man underwent a literal trial by fire. He danced barefoot on a bed of living, steaming, red-hot coals. Those who danced and were not called were burnt. But those who heard Trickster's voice whisper their names, danced long and wildly. Finally, one dancer was chosen from this corps. He was chosen by «chance» through the single fall of the copper Coins of Coincidence. Then, amidst great hooting and joyous Hissing, the night's King of Deviance went in search of his Queen. They would couple in privacy, and, on cues known only to themselves, the godstruck pair would return to the community. The Revel Queen would dance her newfound fertility and womanhood into the ground. She would act as the hub in a great turning wheel. It was an awesome sight, this turning. And a high honor. Tonight's Queen slipped through the woods silently, her yellow boots muffled by pine needles that covered the path. She reached the glen, breathless. Nervous and excited about the sexual initiation to come, she pulled off her mask, wiping the sweat off her face. Then she heard the sound of a horse approaching. Rolling her eyes, Kelandris thought perhaps one of the village outsiders had misunderstood the ritual instructions and, seeing the Wasp Queen leave the crowd, had decided to follow her through the woods. Kelandris put her hands on her hips, prepared to redirect the intruder sternly. The sound of the approaching horse stopped. Kelandris listened intently for a moment. Nothing. Deciding that the rider must have returned to the main trail, Kelandris pulled out a tortoise shell comb and feathered her long blue-black hair away from her high cheekbones and wide brow. It was a self-conscious gesture, purely adolescent. Kelandris stopped her primping, listening to the steady drone of drums in the distance. She glanced at the lone torch near her feet. It cast moving shadows on the trees. Kelandris swallowed. Sitting in the comparative dark as she was, Kelandris suddenly felt edgy about her lover-to-be. What if Trickster picked a real loser, she thought uneasily. Or worse—what if Trickster went for out-and-out deviance, selecting one of her brothers to be her mate? Kel put her comb away and got to her feet. She began to pace. What if Trickster picked Yonneth? After that incident in the blizzard last year, she thought uncomfortably, she wouldn't want Yonneth to even think about bedding her—much actually do it. She reviewed the incident with distaste. Eight months ago, their mother had sent Kel and Yonneth to fetch more firewood for winter. On their way home, they were overtaken by a snowstorm. Scrambling for their lives, Kelandris had directed their team of horses to an old shepherd's shack in the area. Yonneth and she found it without mishap. Entering the hut, Kelandris immediately began cleaning the ashes out of the fireplace. Yonneth went for a supply of wood in the back of their wagon. Making sure the horses were secure and protected from the storm, he returned to the hut, his mood lousy, his Jinnjirri hair gray-blue. Kelandris smiled at his ill-humor. She had two other brothers—Garr and Tommo—both of them Tammirring born. Kelandris felt closer in spirit to her Jinnjirri brother, however. Her mother said it was because they were both adopted. Kel knew better. Yonneth—"her Yonneth» as she affectionately called him—was special. He was different. He was smart. He was also an artist. Talent like Yonneth's set him apart from the Suxonli community. Kelandris identified with his isolation. She felt truly kindred with Yonneth. His loneliness was hers. So she thought. Making a fire now, Kelandris watched Yonneth play idly with some twigs of kindling, making stick houses and crushing them softly under his fist. Kelandris, who had a good sense of humor in those days, chuckled. «Oh, come on, Yonn,» she said gaily, «it's not so bad up here. I've food in my pack, and there's blankets in the cupboard. We'll be warm and cozy in no time.» She grinned. «Buck up, sweetie. We're having an adventure.» «I don't want an adventure,» snapped Yonneth, his Jinnjirri hair streaking with a vexed shade of red. «Well,» said Kelandris with a sigh, «can't be helped, brother mine. Nature does these things sometimes. Rimble-Rimble.» Yonneth scowled at his older sister. «Don't let's start on him, okay? It's bad enough being stuck in a blizzard, much less have to talk about him.» Kelandris rolled her eyes. «Presence alive, Yonneth—are you still sore about me being Queen at next Hallows? I mean, it's not like you were excluded from the Coin Toss on purpose. Suxonli law is very clear, Yonn: only Tammirring maidens can play the Queen.» «It's a stupid law,» he muttered, his Jinnjirri body changing gender as he spoke. Yonneth now resembled a skinny fifteen-year-old girl. Kelandris shrugged, her good humor starting to ebb. «It's an ancient law,» she corrected. «Look—there's nothing you can do about it. We Tammi are the natural mystics, and you Jinn are the natural artists.» Yonneth crossed her arms over her chest. «Trickster's got to be crazy to have you dance for him. You're as lawful as a Saambolin.» «What's that supposed to mean?» Kel demanded angrily. «It means, sister dear, that you haven't got a deviant bone in your whole frigging body!» Yonn glared at Kel, then changed back to being male. «I do, too!» Yonneth smiled at Kel derisively. «Yeah? Then how come you refuse to carry the holovespa in your Queen's dildo? Ev
ery Wasp Queen for the past nine years has given out the remedy. Every Queen. The village is up for a good time, Kel. Looks to me like you plan to spoil it!» Kelandris opened her travelling pack and pulled out a wad of beef jerky. «We don't need holovespa to soar,» she said quietly. «You watch—I'll make you high without it. You just watch me dance—» Yonneth made a rude noise with his lips. Taking a piece of jerky, he bit into it angrily. «Kel—I hate to tell you this, but you're nothing special. And when you dance, nothing's going to happen. Maybe we'll get a little dizzy. That's all.» He bit off another mouthful of jerky. «Face it, Kel—the ritual's dead. And holovespa puts life back into it.» Kel's green eyes glittered with frustration. «You don't know what you're talking about!» «Oh, and I suppose you do?» Kel's eyes filled with tears. She was certain Yonneth was in error, but she couldn't explain how she knew it. It was a gut feeling, deep and implacable. «Shit,» she muttered. «Well, that's an improvement. Obscenity becomes you,» he added, fluttering his eyes at her. «Rimble-Rimble.» Kelandris bit her lower lip, feeling angrier and angrier. Finally, she asked, «Just what is it you need to feel at the hallows, Yonn?» «Decadent. Sexy. Overwhelmed by Trickster.» Kelandris frowned. «Overwhelmed? In what way?» Yonneth stretched out in front of the fire, lying only a few inches from Kelandris. «I want to be entered by Trickster completely. I want to be forced to surrender. To submit.» Kelandris regarded her brother uneasily. This was a side to Yonneth she had never seen. And she wasn't sure she liked it. Kel swallowed. «You sound like you want to be raped. Is that what you think the Divine does?» Yonneth shrugged, his hand touching Kel's knee. «Might be fun for starters—» Kelandris got to her feet instantly, every Greatkin sensibility in her outraged. «What's the matter with you, Yonneth? Where's your heart—?» Yonneth started laughing. Wagging a finger at Kel, he said, «See? What did I tell you? No deviance.» He shrugged at his sister. «So you don't like rape. How about incest? Besides,» he said standing up and patting the bulge in his trousers, «I'm not your blood brother. So there's no harm.» Kelandris backed up, picking up her travelling pack. She couldn't believe Yonneth was acting like this. «You goddamn stay away from me! You hear?» The Jinnjirri continued to taunt her. «Who knows, Kel—maybe Trickster will pick me for your lover at the Hallows. I mean—Rimble-Rimble, right? And there wouldn't be a thing you could do about it, either. Unless you plan on breaking some of your precious Suxonli laws.» «Shut up, Yonneth!» Kel yelled at him. As she spoke, she thrust her hand deep in the front pocket of her travelling pack. Her fingers closed on the knife hilt she found there. One more step, she thought. Tears brimmed in her eyes. One more step— Yonneth laughed at Kel's discomfort. Apparently losing interest, he went to fetch a blanket from the cupboard. Kelandris watched him with hooded eyes, her hand still gripping the hidden knife. But Yonneth never made another sexual reference that night. Or at any other time. In fact, Yonneth had brought up the subject and dropped it so quickly that Kelandris had since wondered if maybe she had imagined the whole thing. Perhaps misinterpreted Yonneth's motivation? After all, brothers were brothers, and even Garr and Tommo had teased her on more than one occasion until she had cried. Kelandris played idly with the strings of her Revel Queen mask, continuing to listen to the drumming in the distance. Her shoulders sagged briefly. With all her heart, she wished Yonneth had not said those things about Trickster maybe choosing him to be her consort for the night. The thought made her feel physically ill. Kelandris fingered the small throwing knife she had tucked in the bra of her harlequin costume. She hoped it wouldn't come to this. She fervently hoped not. She stopped pacing, trying to calm herself. Telling herself that her present mood was neither inviting nor loving, Kelandris forced herself to think pleasant thoughts about Trickster. She failed miserably. Kelandris swore at herself and then at Yonneth. Kicking at a stone—and stubbing her toe—Kelandris knelt on the ground and began to cry. Wishing that she were anywhere other than where she was, Kel begged Rimble not to send Yonneth to her tonight. Wiping her eyes jerkily, she whispered, «Let me be the Revel Queen. If you send me someone horrible, I'll never trust you again, Rimble. Never.» Kelandris blinked back more tears. Suddenly realizing just how damaging Yonneth's idle comments had really been, Kelandris panicked. What if Trickster took offense at her distrust of him? What if Greatkin Rimble was testing the heart of his Revel Queen. Kel put her hand over her mouth, utterly ashamed. She bowed her head. Taking several deep breaths, Kelandris raised her hands slowly in honest supplication to the Presence, the One who directed Rimble. Lifting her tear-streaked face, she shut her eyes and whispered a prayer she had written only that afternoon. It was at this moment that Zendrak stepped silently into the clearing. Unaware of his presence, Kel opened her hands like petals of a flower, her voice low and intimate. She sounded as though she were speaking to her oldest and dearest friend: No major miracles please, Unless you want to tease me. Walk with me, Walk in me. Let my body be your road, your carriage. Let my womb be yours, Filled with the wonder of your unknown. Hold my heart close to your own Let it beat in time to your divine noise, So that your sound may. Like a tuning fork—hummm And send me deeper into your embrace. Breathe me. Let me be lost in you, So that I may truly be found. And let me praise you like a moon-eyed calf, Drunk on night silver and gambolling joy. Silly. Let me be silly in your presence, So that you might laugh And in so doing, teach me your best jokes. And when I die, Kiss me passionately, So that I might wake in death And see your radiant face. Kelandris opened her eyes, feeling queerly comforted. She got slowly to her feet. Hearing the rustle of clothing behind her, she turned around. A tall man in green stood in front of her. He gazed at her in silence, his expression thoughtful. Heart pounding, Kel took in every detail of his arresting face. Blue-black hair that brushed back like raven wings, high cheekbones, and olive skin. Full lips. A nose that was hooked— like a great bird's beak. The man's dark eyes reflected her face in the torchlight. Like the black glass of a scrying mirror, she decided. Kel figeted under the man's steady regard. She felt pierced. As if her thoughts were no longer private. Kelandris licked her lips nervously. «Who are you?» she whispered. «I am Trickster's Emissary.» A chill skittered up Kel's spine. And she didn't know why. Still hearing the drumming in the distance, she asked, «Uh—did the Coins of Coincidence—» Zendrak chuckled. Walking toward Kel slowly, he said, «No, dear heart. I'm not part of your village ritual. I'm part of something else. Something a bit larger. But just the same, Rimble sends you his greetings.» «He does?» she asked, taking a step backward. Zendrak stopped where he was, opening his arms to her, his eyes kind. Then his strong physical scent swept toward her on the autumn breeze. Mythrrim to Mythrrim, she was undone. Zendrak's personal body odor intoxicated Kel's senses like a heady high. Her pulse raced. Gasping, the Revel Queen touched her chest unconsciously, aware of a pulling sensation in her heart. Pulling or sliding or aching—she wasn't sure which. Still holding his hands open to her, Zendrak gestured gently for Kel to come to him. Kelandris shook her head. «You don't understand. There's this ritual going on tonight. And I'm supposed to make love with—I mean—I—» Kel clapped her hand over her mouth in embarrass-ment. The man in front of her was a total stranger. And Kel doubted very much that it was wise to discuss such matters with someone from the outside—particularly someone who hadn't even come for the Hallows. Kelandris blushed furiously. «Excuse me,» she said as calmly as she could manage. «You'll have to go now. I'm—uh—waiting for someone.» Zendrak inclined his head toward the chanting of the villagers at the end of the Long Revel Trail. «Oh, they'll be at it for at least an hour yet.» He smiled. «Rimble says so.» «Rimble says—» Kel broke off in mid-sentence. «Who are you?» The man in green removed his long travelling cloak. He smiled at her, «My name is Zendrak.» Laying the cloak on the ground, he jdded, «I stand in for Rimble sometimes.» More interested in what the man was doing than in what he was saying, Kel's eyes widened. Was he making a bed? «Didn't you hear me?» she asked anxiously. «You have to go now. I'm waiting for—» «
Me,» said Zendrak quietly. There was a short silence while Kel deliberated the truth of this. Zendrak raised an eyebrow. «Perhaps you prefer someone else?» Remembering Yonneth, Kel swallowed. «Well—uh—no. You' re—just fine.» Zendrak smiled. Lifting Kel's chin gently with his hand, he kissed her lightly, his warm tongue playing over her half-open lips. Kelandris thought she was going to die on the spot. From bliss. The last of her reservations about the rightness or wrongness of loving Zendrak folded. Zendrak's breath brushed her face. Kelandris groaned softly. Zendrak's personal animal scent—sweet, musky, and inviting—teased her senses. Delightfully drunk now, Kel could hardly see straight. Zendrak kissed her again, this time more thoroughly. Kel tried to match his five hundred years of passion, but her inexperience made her slightly clumsy. His eyes twinkling with amusement, Zendrak convinced Kel to come up for air. Then he taught her how to kiss him. Happily for all concerned, Kelandris proved to a quick study. Touching Kel's breasts for the first time, Zendrak stiffened abruptly. Kelandris had a razor-sharp knife hidden in her bra. Eyeing Kel ruefully, Zendrak pulled the knife free and dropped it on the ground. Zendrak chuckled. Then he said, «Trickster told me you'd be fierce. He wasn't kidding. Tell me,» he asked, «do you often make love in full armor?» Rolling her eyes, Kelandris picked up the knife and threw it expertly into a sapling. «There,» she muttered. «You've disarmed me.» «And you're vexed,» said Zendrak, his voice sober. «You've misunderstood. I enjoy a woman who fights her own battles. And shows her spirit openly.» He stroked Kel's cheek with gentle fingers. «Spirited women are the very best kind. And they're also the hardest to come by.» Kelandris wrinkled her nose in disagreement. «Oh—Tammirring makes my kind everyday. It's in the draw.» Zendrak laughed good-naturedly. «Believe me, Kelandris of Suxonli, the world has never seen one such as you before.» Taking in the whole of her hermaphroditic costume, Zendrak bent to loosen the leather dildo from her striped belt. Holding the erect penis sheath by its engorged stem, Zendrak winked at Kelandris. «I don't think you'll be needing this for a bit. I've a very generous nature.» Patting the lower portion of his green robe, Zendrak added, «And I'm happy to share.» Kelandris started to smile then hesitated. The color drained out of her face as her seventeen-year-old virginity got the best of her. «How generous?» she asked hoarsely, all of Yonneth's taunts coming to mind. Tales of pain and blood. Kel started to tremble. «My brother—» She broke off, tears in her eyes. Zendrak studied the fear in her face. He dropped the leather ritual dildo to the ground and pulled Kelandris to him, enfolding her pounding heart in his arms. He kissed her lovingly then said, «Brothers can be cruel sometimes, Kel. You must refuse such violence.» «I do,» she said adamantly, glancing at her knife stuck in the sapling. Zendrak followed her gaze. «Weapons are ineffective against psychic violence, Kel. Only spirit can overcome this kind of attack. Spirit, courage, and refusal.» Kelandris listened closely to Zendrak's words. They made her feel strong inside. Strong, relieved, and hopeful. She smiled tentatively at the man in green. «Okay,» she said. Kel shrugged shyly, her face scarlet. «Let's—uh—share.» Zendrak chuckled. «Okay.» The boyishness and innocent glee of Zendrak's ready smile undid Kelandris utterly. Abandoning her fear of Zendrak's male differentness from herself, she allowed Zendrak to remove her costumed codpiece. Kel's eyes widened as she felt Zendrak's fingers explore the confines of her costume—and release her from it. Then, giving Kelandris a reassuring smile, the man in green kissed the tuft of dark hair between her legs. To him, she was a Mythrrim and she was «in season,» which meant desirable. Kelandris felt a twinge in her abdomen. Zendrak raised his eyes to meet hers. «The blood comes now.» «The blood?» asked Kelandris, unsure of what he meant. Then, feeling the wash of something wet issuing from her vagina, she yelped. Her menses had arrived for the first time. Kelandris regarded the blood dripping slowly down the inside of her thigh with horror. «It can't come now!» she cried. «The Blood Day Rule! I'm the Queen! The village expects me to dance!» Kel red her mouth, her eyes desperate. «They'll be so angry if I dance.» Tears brimmed in her eyes. «And so angry if I do.» «Rimble-Rimble,» said Zendrak, his tone matter-of-fact. Kelandris regarded him wildly. «What should I do?» Zendrak kissed her belly. «Make love.» «Yes, but—» «And then decide,» he added calmly. «Hmm?» Kelandris shut her eyes, feeling anguished by her internal conflict. Zendrak got to his feet. Mythrrim to Mythrrim, Kel's first blood sounded a passion in both their bodies that neither could restrain. Kelandris groaned, buckling. Zendrak lowered her to his cloak. Slowly, inexorably, he convinced Kel's body of the rightness of their mating. This was animal-talk. Kelandris opened her legs, inviting the spreading reach of Zendrak's fingers inside her. He stretched her and aroused her. Then, Zendrak entered her. Greatkin to Greatkin, their bodies fit together like a living socket and plug, the current of raw sexual potency streaming from one to the other and back again. Surprised, Kelandris immediately clamped down on her energy. But it was like trying to hold back an enormous waterfall. Power surged and threatened to overwhelm her if she didn't let go. Zendrak pressed his hand against the area between Kel's ovaries. «Just breathe,» he told her quietly. Kelandris tried to do so but ended up panting instead. Zendrak cupped one of his hands around the back of Kel's skull and slipped the other into the curve of the lower portion of her spine. The effect was immediately calming. It felt to Kel as if he were absorbing unclaimed current directly into his hands, thereby steadying the wild fluctuations of psychic energy in her body. «Follow me,» he said calmly and began to slowly rock his penis back and forth inside her vagina. In no time, the power began to build again. This time, Zendrak took control of it, allowing Kel only as much as she could safely accommodate. Kelandris groaned, arching her back. The pressure building inside her body made her feel dizzy and almost nauseous. Losing the rhythm between them, she squirmed under Zendrak. «I can't do this. I can't— «Yes, you can, Kel,» replied Zendrak, kissing her firmly, thrusting his tongue deep inside her mouth. Kelandris hesitated then met his passion with her own. Lights danced before her shut eyes. She felt her body finally relax into Zendrak's full embrace. Now something shifted between them. Something controlled, something electric, and something wildly fertile. Zendrak pulled back from Kel for a moment. He studied the dazed expression in her face then said, «You're doing fine.» Kelandris frowned helplessly. «But what am I doing?» «Becoming the he. Becoming a divine potential. The line to your womb is open now—thanks to your blood. Through you, Suxonli Village will come face-to-face with the Presence. And all will be changed.» Kelandris hadn't the faintest idea what he was talking about. She shuddered, surrendering briefly to the steady pulsing of power streaming out of her hands, legs, and crown. She blinked. Heart pounding, she stared hard at Zendrak. «What—what?» «Let it happen, Kel. Become both.» Kelandris shook her head dazedly. She felt terribly strange—as if her body were literally changing shape. Or sex, she thought. Like a Jinnjirri. She felt for her breasts. They were still there. Utterly confused, she couldn't get rid of the sensation that she might be female and male simultaneously. Zendrak kissed her forehead. «Don't fight it, Kel. It's what you were born to do.» Then Zendrak whispered Trickster's rhyme: Will you turn the inside inside-out, And be sanely mad with me? Will you master the smallest steps of my turnabout, And come to my ecstasy? Kel's world suddenly doubled, and she saw Zendrak's face from both a male and female perspective. It was as if all the concepts of gender she had ever held paradoxically collapsed and expanded inside her mind at the exact same moment. She was no longer male or female. She was a peculiar intermarriage of both. And yet her physical body remained female. Had she always been like this? Kel put the question to Zendrak. Trickster's Emissary nodded. «The visible rests on the invisible. Always.» He stroked Kel's cheek. «In this way, my maleness rests on my femaleness. In a manner of speaking, you could say I am Trickster's she.» Zendrak smiled, massaging Kel's abdomen deeply. «However,» he whispered, «I'll never embody it the way that you do, for I cannot menstruate. I don't turn the inside inside
-out.» Kelandris swallowed. She had never seen a woman's blood-cycle in quite this way before. Then an idea occurred to her. «But the Jinnjirri can— Zendrak shook his head. «The Revel Queen is Tammirring for a reason, Kelandris. The landdraw of this region makes your people's minds elastic. A Jinnjirri turning into a he would mentally burn up. The power of the he can only be grounded by the internal draw of a native Tammirring.» Kelandris played with the dark hair on Zendrak's chest. «Oh.» Zendrak kissed her nose. «You could dance for Trickster anywhere, I suppose. But I think it would be easiest in Tammirring. Especially in Suxonli. Here you and the land understand each other on an intuitive level. Here your seasons are its seasons. Here,» he said moving his hips again, «you're at home.» Kelandris gasped, passion building between them once more. This time, Kel allowed herself to feel the he surge through her psyche. Using Zendrak's energy to stabilize herself, she opened to the complete bisexuality of Greatkin Rimble. It was a wild glory. And Trickster's Emissary and Trickster's he reveled in it. Chapter Thirty-Two Someone pounded loudly on the front door to Doogat's tobacco shop. Jolted out of their shared trance and their remembered lovemaking, Zendrak and Kelandris opened their eyes groggily. Forcing himself to focus on the outside world again, Zendrak stared at the vexed face glaring at him through the window. It was an Asilliwir woman of about thirty-five years of age. Still holding Kel's neck with one hand and the Kindrasul with the other, Zendrak debated what to do while the Asilliwir woman continued to sledgehammer the door. He needed to make sure the transfer of two-legged apperception of reality to four-legged was complete in Kel's mind. Feeling the woman in black suddenly stiffen against him, Zendrak swore softly. Clearly, the beating on the door was frightening Kelandris. Now the muffled voice of the Asilliwir reached him: «You there in green! Doon't pretend I canna see you! Open up!» The unusual accent of the woman broke Zendrak's concentration with Kel. Zendrak squinted in the direction of the clamoring Asilliwir. Abruptly Aunt's mental Mayanabi message returned to him in full: «Need second opinion on 'shift fever' victim. Girl, aged fifteen, a Tammi. Name: Yafatah. Begat during Rimble's Remembrance in Suxonli. Father Jinnjirri, but unknown to either mother or child. Mother's name is Fasilla. Personal friend of mine. Born in southern Asilliwir. Physical symptoms to follow…» «Shit,» said Zendrak angrily. This was Fasilla again and as before her timing couldn't be worse. He bit his lower lip, caught between his duty to Rimble—who wanted Yafatah in Speakinghast—and his caring for Kelandris. Zendrak let go of Kel's neck and placed both of his hands over the Kindrasul. Impressing the black glass beads with his heart's deepest longing for Kelandris, he leaned close to her face and whispered, «Wait here, Kel. I'll only be gone a moment.» Kelandris said nothing, her green eyes bewildered. Zendrak left Kel's side and hurried to the front of the tobacco shop. He flung open the door, blocking the Asilliwir woman's entry with his great height and broad build. «Yes?» he said curtly. «I be Fasilla of Ian Abbi. Be you Doogat of Suf?» «Doogat's out for the afternoon.» Zendrak pointed to the sign in the window. «Shop's closed. Come back tonight. Say—seven bell-eve?» «But—» Zendrak shook his head, closing the door firmly in Fasilla's face. He turned around hoping to find Kelandris still lying on the floor. She was not. Zendrak cursed raggedly. Neither Kelandris nor the Kindrasol were to be found anywhere. Zendrak tore through the scarlet beads that divided the tobacco shop from the kitchen. The door leading outside to the store's back alley stood open. Zendrak stepped into the narrow cobblestone byway. He looked in either direction for some sign of the woman in black. The street was empty. Calling Trickster every four-letter name he could think of, Zendrak ran his hand through his dark hair with frustration. Deciding to track Kelandris via the pull of the Kindrasul on his heart, he opened his mind to receive emotional impressions from the black glass beads of Soaringsea. Without warning, Zendrak slammed into a gleeful wall of psychic static. Opening his eyes in surprise, Zendrak muttered, «What?» «First things first, Zen-boy,» said a familiar voice. Zendrak spun around. «Rimble!» Trickster grinned. «In the flesh, so to speak. Meet Old Jamilla.» Zendrak put his hands on his hips, regarding Trickster with grudging admiration. The little Greatkin was no longer four-feet-seven, but a whopping five-feet-three. Dressed in a tattering of rags, Rimble currently appeared as a pied-eyed, toothless old woman. Zendrak smiled sourly. «You've grown.» «That's what happens when I matter to mortals.» Trickster batted her eyes coquettishly. «And believe me, Zen-boy, I matter ooodles to Yafatah.» «Yeah? Well, Kelandris of Suxonli happens to matter ooodles to me, Rimble.» Zendrak crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at his father. «Where is she? Where is Kel?» «Wandering.» «That's not an answer, Rimble.» Trickster shrugged. Then, before Zendrak could open his mouth, Rimble wagged a disapproving finger in Zendrak's face. «And don't even think of asking Phebene for help. I've had about all I can stomach of that lollipop loony. She's a sugar-coated, meddling, tinsel-tot.» Zendrak chuckled derisively. «Poor Rimble. Such a sad story—sharing the stage with Phebene. Perhaps you just can't manage to swallow all that you dish out at the Panthe'kinarok? Of course, we mortals have been gagging on your meddling for centuries—not that you'd care.» Trickster's pied eyes narrowed. «What an ass you are today.» «Like father, like son.» «With one difference, Zen-boy. I don't get duped by Love.» At that moment, several Saambolin students walked past the two Greatkin. One of them laughed merrily, her eyes kind. Grabbing the hand of the boy closest to her, she tweaked his nose saying, «I'm on to you, sweetie. You kick and scream whenever I mention love. But I know better. You've got a yen for tenderness a mile wide. You're a closet romantic, my friend, and I'm just the one to open your door.» Then, glancing in Trickster's direction, the girl added firmly, «So help me, Phebene.» Catching sight of Trickster's scarlet face, Zendrak started laughing. Speaking softly to the Greatkin next to him, Zendrak said, «Point in Tinsel-Tot's favor. She's talking to you, Dad. Direct.» «All lies,» protested Trickster indignantly. Hearing Rimble's comment, the Saambolin girl looked over her shoulder at the old woman clothed in rags. Beaming broadly, she called, «Smile, grandmother. Nothing can stop true love—not even Trickster himself.» «That does it!» retorted Rimble. Without warning, the Greatkin began spitting expertly at the Saambolin students. Wiping Rimble's phlegm off their fine velvets, the students complained fastidiously and walked away. «Just wait until I return to Eranossa, Phebes,» muttered Trickster. Before Zendrak could retort, Rimble materialized a blue robe out of thin air. It was Doogat's size. Rimble handed it to Zendrak. «You better change.» Zendrak shook his head. «Sorry. I'm busy. I've a lunatic to find.» «Like I said, Zen-boy—first things first. You've an overdue appointment with a young Tammirring girl named Yafatah. Come along,» she added, extending her arm to Zendrak. Zendrak refused it, his expression furious. «If you think I'm going to leave Kelandris 'to wander,' you're sadly mistaken, Rimble.» Trickster smiled cooly. «That's why I'm here.» «Why?» «To make sure you attend to first things first.» Chapter Thirty-Three Staying behind at the caravan camp in the Asilliwir Quarter of Speakinghast while her mother went to check on the availability of Doogat, Yafatah walked slowly back to the red and blue wagon belonging to her mother. She carried a heavy pail of water, the warm water sloshing to and fro as she made her way across the heavily populated caravan park. Before she had left for Doogat's, Fasilla had suggested that Yafatah wash some clothes while the noonday sun still shone high overhead. Yafatah was now doing so. Aunt, for her part, had gone to fetch bread and fruit for snacks, leaving Yafatah alone in the safety of the caravan camp. Borrowing a chunk of gray soap from a neighboring campsite of Asilliwir merchants carrying spices and bolts of bright cloth, Yafatah carefully set the pail of water on the back stairs of the red and blue wagon. She went inside to fetch a pile of her dirtiest laundry. As she pulled a wooden trunk from under her cot, Yafatah sighed. She wished her mother would let her go exploring in Speakinghast. They had passed any number of marvelous stalls and shops on their way to the caravan park. It seemed silly to be surrounded
by paradise and not be permitted to smell the flowers of its gardens. Yafatah scowled. She considered taking a walk despite her mother's admonishments to the contrary. Yafatah stopped sorting her laundry. She figured she had at least a half hour before either Aunt or Fasilla returned. A half hour was plenty of time to see the city sights. Yeah, she thought, grabbing a red traveling cape. Smiling, Yafatah escaped. The fifteen-year-old had not gone more than a block when she heard someone call her name. Turning away from a particularly delectable looking pastry shop in front of her—rows of cream and fruit filled goodies teeming in the window—Yafatah stared at an old woman in patchwork rags waving to her from across the busy street. Yafatah's eyes widened in disbelief. «Jammy!» she cried in delight. As the young girl ran to meet Trickster, «Old Jamilla» turned to the man dressed in blue beside her and said, «At least somebody loves me.» Doogat rolled his black eyes. Trickster opened her arms wide to receive Yafatah, saying, «Well, well, kiddo—what a surprise to see you here. I thought Tammirring didn't like these big cities. No headaches or fear of the crowds?» Yafatah shook her head happily, throwing her arms around Jamilla and giving her a ferocious hug. «I do be so glad to see you, Jammy. I looked for you in Piedmerri, but I couldna' find you. There do be queer things—» Yafatah broke off, suddenly suspicious of the man in blue. Trickster smiled at Yafatah. «He's all right. He's with me. In fact, my sweet, this is Doogat.» Doogat, who was still thinking about Kelandris, gave Yafatah a perfunctory bow, his dark eyes distant. The young girl eyed him skeptically. Then she pursed her lips and remarked, «You ought to spend more time in your shop, Master Doogat. You do be making me ma fierce mad with them hours you keep.» «My sincere apologies,» said Doogat, his tone slightly sarcastic. Yafatah nodded briskly. Turning her attention back to Trickster, she said, «Oh, Jammy—I didna' have anyone to talk to. And me blood came early, and we went into Jinnjirri where I got sick. On account of the shift and all. And then—oh, Jammy—and then, this weird willy thing happened.» Glancing at Doogat briefly, Yafatah tossed her head. «I got tangled with another Tammi. Her name was Kel, and she was fierce crazy. But really, Jammy, she didna' scare me overmuch.» «Why not?» asked Doogat, taking an interest in Yafatah's story for the first time. «Because, Master Doogat—she were a true Tammi,» replied Yafatah, her face reverent. «She be like a starry night that goes on forever. She be vast and deep. And ever so dark. But this dark do be a good kind. Like the hidden places inside the oldest mountains. That Kel, see—she touches the heavens but walks the earthy world. She stands between, knowing both.» Yafatah nodded with enthusiasm. «And I shall never be the same again.» Trickster squeezed Yafatah's shoulder. «Mystery is a power of the Fertile Dark. And you have met it well, kiddo.» Doogat said nothing, his heart made unexpectedly heavy by Yafatah's description of her contact with Kel's mind. He turned away from Old Jamilla and Yafatah, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his blue robe. Scanning the bustling street again for a tall woman in black, he sighed painfully. Somewhere out there, a mystery walked. A mystery that he longed to love with all his heart. And soul. Holding the Kindrasul tightly in her hand as she entered the Saambolin Quarter of the city, Crazy Kel muttered wildly to no one. Turning east, she headed for the park grounds of the Great Library of Speakinghast. Kel had seen the tall hedge of the library's central garden from a distance and without knowing why, she felt a need to see it up close. Avoiding several tour groups, she crept closer to the iron gate at the entrance to the twenty-five-foot hedge. A sign in six landdraw languages hung over the gate, announcing the time of the next tour. Kelandris read the Tammirring translation. Her eyes turned thoughtful under her shredded veil. She read the translation again, this time out loud: » 'Welcome to the Great Maze of Speakinghast. The only one of its kind in the world, the Great Maze is famous for the complexity of its unique spiral design and for the twenty-foot statue of a fabled Mythrrim Beast in its very center. The Library wishes to caution you against entering the Great Maze without a guide. We take no responsibility for you if you choose to disregard this warning. It is possible to get lost here—for days. Tours are conducted at one, three, and five bell-eve. An admission price of twenty-five coppers is payable to your guide. Thank you for your cooperation. Master Curator Sirrefene.' « Kelandris, in natural contrary style, ignored the warning completely and entered the spiral labyrinth of boxwood hedges. The sweet scent of the shrubbery delighted her at first, then, after an hour of walking, it became slightly sinister and oppressive. Kelandris sat down on a marble bench to rest. The bells of the city tolled twelve noon, the ones in the Great Library thundering loudly above her. Startled, Kelandris got to her feet and took the first path that opened before her. She ran blindly yelling at unseen accusers. As Rimble's Luck would have it, Kel stumbled upon one of two tracks in the whole maze that led directly to the winged statue in its middle. The Power of Coincidence, it seemed, worked for Trickster's daughter as easily as it did for Trickster's son. Or perhaps the black glass beads in Kel's hand called to the black glass statue ahead, and the statue answered in draw. Whatever the reason, Kelandris found her way to the Mythrrim Beast in impossible record time. She slowed as she caught sight of the squatting, twenty-foot, female legend. Recognition Ceremony. Voices sounded in Kel's mind. Voices that had lived a hundred thousand years, speaking still in generational memory of the Mythrrim Beasts of Soaringsea. Voices and the storyteller's gestures. Whispers and the long sigh of heaven. Such was the power of the Great Ones who spoke through Mythrrim; such was the power of the Greatkin, the beloved of the Presence. And now the Eldest came to Kelandris. The woman in black struggled to hear the murmur of Greatkin Themyth, the mother of Mythrrim. Kelandris reached for the black statue in front of her, her voice strangling in strange whimpering sounds. She was an animal calling to her kin. The statue remained silent, its glistening black eyes open and lifeless. Again, Kelandris called. The statue made no response. Weeping, Kelandris pawed at it wildly. Her fingers slid off the glass. She kicked at the statue, hurting only herself. Rocking back and forth, her fists balled into her stomach, Kel's voice assumed the cry of a hunting bird in distress. She gave a series of soft, high pitched screeches. Then, exhausted, Kel crawled under the folded wing of the obsidian Mythrrim and fell into a sorrowing sleep. Rimble-Rimble. At the east entrance, Rowenaster prepared to take his survey class on an unofficial excursion into the spiral labyrinth. A few of his Jinnjirri students tittered nervously as Rowenaster counted heads. Tree, who happened to be present for this particular field trip and was wishing he weren't, decided to have some fun with his fellow Jinn. Naturally paranoid of all things Saambolin, the Jinn were uneasy to begin with in this enclosed space. Smiling wickedly, Tree announced, «Did you know this is where the city takes its dissidents? Loses them in this place, forever and ever.» At least half the students fell silent, their eyes casting about for some discreet means of escape. The professor took stock of the situation. Watching the Jinnjirri students separate hastily from the rest of the draws, Rowenaster gave Tree a withering smile. «Thanks.» Tree grinned. «You're welcome, roomie.» Rowenaster pursed his lips. «Speaking of the 'K'—I'm thinking we ought to reshuffle the house chores soon. How'd you like to be recommended for garderobes and other stinky things?» Tree rolled his eyes. «Okay, okay. I get the message: shut up.» «Such an excellent pupil,» said Rowen, continuing to count heads. «Hey, professor,» said another student presently. She had just read the warning hanging over the iron gate, and, being a lawful Saambolin, she felt uneasy about walking out of schedule into a place where one could get lost «for days.» Rowenaster had a reputation for being a careful teacher, but, on rare occasions, Professor Rowenaster had been known to do the absolutely unexpected. Such unpredictability in one of her own draw made this first-term student very uncomfortable. «Professor,» she called again. Rowenaster broke off his count for the second time and said, «What is it, Torri?» «Are you sure you know your way through this maze?» Tree came to Rowen's rescue. «Presence alive, girl—he's only been taking field trips i
n here for the past twenty years.» Torri swallowed. «Oh,» she said, her face scarlet. When the professor had gone back to counting heads for the final time, one of the other equally uneasy Saambolin nudged Torri. Then he winked, pulling out a large ball of brilliant orange yarn. Tying the end to a bar of the iron gate, he said, «I'm with you, Torri. Ain't nobody getting me in there with that crazy old coot. Ever noticed how many weird things happen around Professor Rowenaster? It's almost like he's got Trickster sitting in his back pocket or something. And he's so friendly with the Jinn—kind of makes you wonder,» he added, his tone of voice implying a sexual reference. «The registrar says he lives with shifts.» Torri watched the fellow double knot the yarn to the gate, her expression relieved. «Well,» she said amiably, «Trickster is the professor's graduate area of special emphasis.» «So queer for a Saam.» «Very,» she agreed, and fell in line with the rest of the students. Admonishing the members of his class not to lag behind or go off on their own inside the spiral, the professor led ninety first-term pupils into the Great Maze of Speakjnghast. This was only a fourth of the actual class roster. Tree joined Rowenaster at the head of the group. Recalling his previous conversation with the professor, Tree said, «When is the next house meeting, anyway? I mean, we are having a Hallows, aren't we?» «Janusin's picking up the invitations for the party today. So yes, we're definitely having one. Regarding the next house meeting, I thought I saw a note in the kitchen this morning asking for people's schedules. Barlimo muttered something to me over her breakfast tea about wanting us all to convene tomorrow night.» «Tomorrow!» cried Tree. «But Mab's only just returned! She's hardly in a state to handle a fucking house meeting, Rowen! She's so depressed, I'm worried she might try something serious! You know—like killing herself.» Tree stuffed his hands in his colorful fall garb. «If Barlimo hadn't insisted that I go on this field trip with you, I'd be home right now watching over her.» «No doubt, Tree,» replied the professor drily. «And to no avail. Too much caring can be as damaging as too little.» «I'm in love with Mab,» replied Tree. «That's no excuse.» «No excuse? No excuse for what, Rowen?» «To hurt Mab.» Tree crossed his arms over his chest. «Oh, what do you know? The last person you were ever in love with is probably so old by now, they've taken up permanent residence at the Great Library Museum!» Rowenaster glanced at the Jinnjirri's streaking red hair. «Temper's showing, dear.» They walked in silence until they reached the last turn of the spiral that opened into the central courtyard. Rowenaster stopped the group and motioned for them to move closer to him. Torri and the Saambolin carrying the ball of orange thread hung back. Rowenaster gestured for them to join the rest of them. Torri did so. The Saambolin hesitated; he had just come to the end of his ball of yarn and had not had time to tie it off yet. He smiled stupidly at the professor, his hands behind his back. Rowenaster peered over his bifocals at the student. «What seems to be the problem, Widdero?» «Problem? No problem here, sir.» Rowenaster rolled his eyes and pushed through the group to reach the dissembling fellow. The professor stopped in front of Widdero and snapped his fingers impatiently. «All right—let's have it.» «Have what, sir?» «The yarn, the string, the bread crumbs—whatever it is you've brought along to help you find your way back. Like Tree said, boy, I've been doing this a long time.» Widdero showed Rowenaster the end of the ball of yarn. «I just ran out of length.» «That's not all you've done,» replied the professor cooly. Widdero swallowed hard. «Sir?» «You've also hung yourself with it, Widdero.» «Sir?» «You heard me. You get no credit for this field trip. I ought to flunk you for missing the point of the whole class. Instead, I'll send you home.» The Saambolin student stared at Rowenaster. «Now!» snapped the professor, pointing in the direction from which they had all just come. Widdero backed up, then realizing that Rowenaster had no intention of giving him an explanation, he cursed the professor loudly. Turning away, Widdero followed the orange thread in his shaking hand. He disappeared around the comer. Widdero's curses woke the woman in black who lay sleeping under the obsidian wing of the Great Mythrrim Beast of Soaring-sea. Raising her head. Crazy Kel listened to the sound of an old man's voice speaking to an invisible audience in the corridor to her right. She herself also remained unseen, her black robe further obscuring her under the shadow of the black glass. Rowenaster regarded his students cooly, daring anyone to question his judgment or authority. No one did—not even Tree. The professor nodded at the eighty-nine stunned faces standing in front of him. «Sit down. I have something I want to say to all of you.» People sat, their robes rustling, their mouths closed. «You may think my conduct toward Widdero to be harsh. Well, it's not.» Rowen paused. «I can see by your dubious expressions that you don't agree. All right,» he said, cupping his hands behind his back like a sea captain beginning his morning constitutional on deck, «I'll explain my thinking to you. First off, Widdero's refusal to trust the unknown is typical of my draw. We like our mazes solved before we start. And my friends, that simply won't do in these changing times.» The professor began to pace, excited by a subject that was particularly near and dear to his heart. Rowen's long maroon robe slapped gently against his spindly seventy-year-old legs as his Saambolin teacherly passion overcame him. Stopping suddenly, Rowenaster glared at the group and said: «You take this class because it's required. I teach this class because I love it. Every morning, I bring the best of myself to this group in the wild hope of making one or two of you aware of the greater powers at work in our lives right now. Why? Because we two-leggeds are at our childhood's end. And it's time we put away our balls of yarn—and arrogance. This is Jinnaeon. Shifttime—the time of World Renewal. And hope.» Rowen paused. «We may either welcome or resist these forces, but we may not stop them. We can change—or be changed. Your friend, Widdero, has just had a mild taste of what is in store for all of us. Do you wish to be shattered or transformed? Think about it.» Tree, who was sitting in the front row, stared at Rowen in disbelief. The old professor sounded like a street corner doom and gloomer. Or Doogat, mused Tree thoughtfully, noting how much Rowen's teaching methods had changed in recent months. Where the Saambolin had once been polite and precise, he was now hard-hitting and hasty. Was the professor responding to some unseen deadline or something? Tree stiffened. Maybe the old man was dying, and no one knew it. Tree inclined his head, studying the movements of Rowenaster. The Jinnjirri shrugged in disagreement with himself. The professor looked as hale and spry as he always did. So, thought Tree, something else must be bothering Rowenaster of Speakinghast. But what? «Now the majority of you here saw a certain play several weeks ago,» continued Rowen. «It was called Rimble's Remedy. We discussed it at some length in class, and we concluded what, Torri?» The young Saambolin girl turned scarlet, trying to recall the substance of that long conversation. She had been doodling in her notebook at the time, thinking about her pitiful lovelife. Torri swallowed hard. «Uh—I know we talked about the Prophetic Vision. Of the Tammirring, I mean.» «Correct,» said Rowenaster warmly. Torri smiled, assuming she was now off the hook «And?» «And?» she faltered. Rowenaster put his hands on his hips, speaking to the group at large. «And I read a poem to you. It was one I had found etched into a wall in an old cave outside Suxonli Village. Anybody remember it? No? All right, then, I'll repeat it to you.» Rowenaster paused, removing his bifocals from the bridge of his large nose. Regarding the group sternly, he said: By the venomous sting of his Chaos Thumb, Trickster pricks nine, one by one, His circle of genius for the turn ta come; Back Pocket People for that rainy day When the weave of the world pulls away. On the other side of the hedge, Kelandris leaned forward, her torn veil fluttering with the sharp intake of her breath. Rowenaster eyed his students with a mixture of impatience and nation. «Okay—so why am I reminding you of this poem? And what does a poem from a little known village in southern Tammirring have to do with me chastising one of my 'best students'?» He paused. «Plenty.» Tree cleared his throat. «Professor,» he whispered, «are you—are you okay? I mean—» Rowenaster snorted at the Jinnjirri. �
�As I was saying—there is a connection between the two. That connection,» he continued forcefully, «is Mystery. And Mystery cannot be approached by the mind's cleverness. Try it, and Mystery will smite you with outrage.» Kelandris fingered her shredded veil thoughtfully, her talons hidden. «We pride ourselves on our modernity—cool, capable. In control. But for how long? Every day we're confronted by the inexplicable.» Rowen paused. «I'm referring in part, of course, to the impossible statue standing on the other side of this hedge. No one knows how it got here. Yet it exists.» Kelandris crawled between the front paws of the obsidian statue and began grooming herself with teeth and tongue. «Now,» said the professor suddenly squatting in front of the group and studying each of their uneasy faces in turn, «the Suxonli poem is a mystery, too. It's very old. Its author remains unknown. Nevertheless, we do know this: the poem is a prophecy. A prophecy for our time,» he said in a low, emphatic voice. «Do you know what this means, children? Do you understand what we—your generation and mine—collectively face? Can you imagine what it will be like if the weave of the world pulls away without the help of Trickster? Without the control of the Nine?» No one said a word. During the intervening silence, something clicked in Kel's mind. The Nine. The Nine were important. The signal. Trickster would send out a signal to gather in one place. Nine would leave the hive; nine would fly to Speakinghast. But who were these nine? And, then she knew. Kel remained motionless staring at Rowenaster's face. «Goosebumps?» continued the professor. «Then you begin to know the potency of Mystery.» «It's just a poem,» retorted Torri. «Written by Tammi for Tammi. That makes the prophecy their problem—not ours, professor.» Rowenaster said nothing, cleaning the lenses of his bifocals with a monogrammed silk handkerchief. «That's exactly my point, Torri.» He set his silver glasses back on the bridge of his dark nose. «You—all of you—should've known about this prophecy before now. It was your birthright,» he added giving the three Tammirring in the group a look of consternation. «Nor should I have been the one to bring it to your attention.» Rowenaster shrugged. «Each draw has a responsibility to uphold in the greater scheme of things. As a Saambolin, mine is to teach what I know. The Dunnsung are here to remind us of the harmonies in the universal language of music and dance. The Piedmerri provide nurturance—be they farmers or parents. The Asilliwir keep cultures alive by the exchange of news and goods from one border of the continent to the next. The Jinnjirri must create—pursuing self-expression regardless of exterior conditions. And the Tammirring? Theirs is perhaps the most awesome responsibility of all. The Tammi are the caretakers of our collective soul. It is they who listen to the winds of the universe and translate the sigh into direction for all of us.» Rowenaster paused. «Now this is the point: if one landdraw sickens, we all sicken. And that play— Rimble's Remedy—is a shocking indication of a growing spiritual malaise—one that started in Tammirring at least sixty years ago. It has now spread to the Jinnjirri. I put it to you that the Saambolin will be the next to be so infected. Our problem, you see.» Tree stared at Rowenaster anxiously, listening to the angry comments of the Saambolin students sitting near him. He considered moving into the company of his own draw. If Rowenaster was going to foment a minor civil riot on the grounds of the Great Library of Speakinghast, he wanted to be among his own kind when tempers flared. Then, deciding not to call attention to himself by standing up, Tree put his head in his hands, muttering, «I don't believe this. I just don't believe this.» Rowenaster continued to speak from his unchallenged soapbox. Why do you think there's so much unrest in this city? Why do you Jinnjirri think Guildmaster Gadorian is cracking down on your quarter? Because he's afraid. There are far more Jinn in Speakinghast than Tammi. Let's face it—the Tammi are loners. But you, Jinn—you organize, you take sides, you reveal yourselves through your art. Although he doesn't know it, Gadorian senses a growing Tammi and Jinn despair. This can produce instability. Civil unrest in a city.» Rowen glanced at Tree. Tree bit his lower lip, thinking about the atmosphere of Decadence at the playhouse where the Merry Pricksters performed. He wondered if he had inadvertently contributed to it in way. He had always been somewhat of an artistic dilettante. Commitment, he mused grimly, had never been one of his strong points. Neither in artistic mediums nor in personal relationships. Tree winced, thinking about Mab. She needed stability right now. Did he have any to give her? He hoped so. «So Guildmaster Gadorian reacts,» continued the professor, «albeit blindly for the most part. Still, the Guildmaster wields a great deal of power in Speakinghast, so, blind or not, the effects of his reaction are strongly felt. Particularly by the Jinnjirri—who are our society's scapegoats at present. It's all quite unnecessary. But nothing can be done, you see, until we recognize what we're dealing with—namely change on a massive scale. And explosive spiritual turnabout. Meanwhile, the Jinnjirri suffer.» «And that's our fault?» asked Torri indignantly, referring to the Saambolin students who were present in the group. The majority of them were younger than twenty years of age. «I mean we did not create this world—or its prejudices, professor. If anyone's responsible for the problems of the Jinnjirri, I'd say it was your generation of landdraw.» The Saambolin sitting near Tree passed whispers back and forth. «Torri—you're not listening. I'm not blaming any one draw for our present predicament. I'm not even pointing the finger at the Tammirring. You're thinking only in terms of yourself. This is not a question of draw against draw—at least, I hope not. We're talking about a collective whole here. We're talking about a situation that affects all Mnemlith at once.» Torri gave him a superior look and said, «What has that to do with me? I mean, I get up in the morning, I go to school, I come home. In short, professor, I live my life as responsibly as I can manage. And I don't appreciate being told that I'm not only responsible for myself—but for the attitudes of my whole fucking draw! Much less the entire world!» Rowenaster shrugged cooly. «So?» Torri's eyes blazed. «So I take this class because I have to—not because I want to. And you shouldn't abuse your privilege as a teach at our great university by trapping students in this boxwood maze, forcing them to listen to your anarchistic opinions because they can't leave without running the risk of getting lost 'for days'!» Tree stroked his chin. Torri had a point. He regarded the professor steadily, curious to see what the old man would do with it. Rowenaster surprised Tree; he chuckled. «Torri, change is already upon us. It's no longer something we can avoid—it simply is. The Presence is not a static thing. It needs to grow as you and I do. And when the Presence grows, we're affected. These are great times when the Powers of Neath are loosed—like the wasp's poison in the poem.» «And that's another thing,» snapped Torri hotly. «You're obsessed with Greatkin Rimble. Just because Old Yellow Jacket was your area of emphasis, that doesn't mean he's ours! I mean, Rimble's not even real!» Rowenaster got to his feet, beginning to pace again. Everyone watched in silence. As he walked, the woman in black on the other side of the hedge played idly with Zendrak's Kindrasul. She fingered each of the marked beads haltingly, reading the inscriptions on the black glass through the tingling in her thumb and forefinger. Shadowy images formed in her mind. Kelandris blinked, her expression surprised. Rowenaster stopped pacing. Turning to face the mutinous but captive class in front of him, he asked, «How many of you believe in the Presence?» Thirty-six out of a possible eighty-nine raised their hands slowly. «And how many believe in the Faces of the Presence? I'm talking about the Greatkin, of course—including the Wasp,» he added drily to Torri. Half of the hands raised stayed up. Tree's was one of them. «I see,» said Rowenaster, his shoulders sagging. Torri interrupted here. «Tell me, professor—was it your intention to convert us into believers through this class?» Rowenaster shook his head. «No. Nothing that simple.» A few of the more sympathetic students tittered. «Then, what was your intention, Rowen?» asked Tree unexpectedly. Rowenaster smiled sadly at him. «I was hoping to expose you to Mystery. I was hoping to bring you into contact with something larger than yourselves. I was hoping to move you to wonder.» The professor paused
, looking toward the direction in which he had sent the chastened Widdero. «Perhaps I should send you all home. Clearly, no one has entered the Great Maze this afternoon free of their everyday 'strings.'» «You make this field trip sound like an initiation rite!» Torri protested. «Do I? Well,» said Rowen thoughtfully, «maybe it is.» «You're also creating mystery where there isn't any,» Torri continued. «Perhaps—perhaps not. I certainly didn't create the mystery standing on the other side of this hedge. Obsidian is not natural to our draw, Torri. A solid block of cut glass. We 'moderns' can't duplicate it. Think of that.» Tree did, and it gave him chills. At that moment, Kelandris squawked like a bird. The woman in black stared wildly at the glass bead held between her thumb and forefinger. She had just found Zendrak's Mythrrim perspective on the events in Suxonli sixteen years ago. Voices. Images. Kelandris shook her head, her green eyes dazed. Here was the whole story. Kel's animal exclamation surprised and perplexed Rowenaster. He turned around. He walked cautiously toward the central chamber of the spiral, his students scrambling to their feet and following him in curious silence. Jaws dropped at the sight of the twenty-foot winged statue. As Rowen's class assembled behind him, Kelandris stood up, the feet and chest of the Mythrrim Beast framing her tall body. Rowenaster frowned, his expression bewildered. Themyth's daughter bowed to the group, saying, «Welcome, O my kin. Gather round, and you shall hear a Mythrrim of old made new in the telling of this time and place. Come, come—don't be afraid. I speak for us all.» Rowen's class hesitated, waiting to see the professor's reaction. Tree nudged Rowen. «That's her,» he whispered. «Who?» «The woman that scared Doogat. Po drew me a picture of her.» Tree paused. «She's crazy as a loon, Rowen. What do you think we should do?» «Humor her,» said the old man and proceeded to sit down. The rest of the class followed suit—all except Tree. Seeing that he was the only one standing, the Jinnjirri squatted beside the professor and asked, « Are you nuts? Po says she's got a knife—» «Yes,» replied Rowen cooly. «And there's something odd in all this.» «What's that supposed to mean?» asked Tree, wondering if Rowenaster was addling right in front of him. «It means, sit down and shut up!» replied Rowen in a low, urgent voice. Tree snorted but did as he was told. Kelandris smiled beatifically at them all. Then, clearing her throat, she proclaimed, «We shall call this Mythrrim by its proper name. Now listen and attend.» Chapter Thirty-Four The Turn of Trickster's Daughter In the winter, in the dead of winter In the mountains, in the snowy mountains In a warm cave, in a warm, wet cave, Civilization gave birth To Trickster's maverick daughter. She was the bloom of Story, She was the flowering of earth, She was the wild seed of Heaven. In a warm cave, in a warm, wet cave, No one hailed the impossible birth Of Trickster's dark-haired daughter. In Suxonli for seventeen years, The Wild Kelandris slept In waiting silence for seventeen years, Wild Kelandris kept covenant With the cave, with the warm, wet cave: She was Trickster's dormant daughter. Until one sacred eve when Greatkin power readied, Until one sacred eve when Greatkin power called A stranger to touch her blessed loins and heart In a forest bed, when Greatkin power made Her warm cave wet with fertile blood And roused Trickster's randy daughter. But while the Wasp Queen coupled with her mate, A boy cheated at the King's testing fire. While the Wasp Queen loved her chosen mate, Yonneth inflamed himself with deviant desire. Soaring drunk on Rimble's Remedy— Yonneth lusted for Trickster's lovely daughter. His penis cruel from thoughts of raping, Yonneth hunted the wood for the Wild Kelandris' flower. While his sister's dewy bloom was sweet lovemaking With the velvet touch of dark-eyed night, Yonneth hunted, he hunted the wild, wet wood For the rosy petals of Trickster's smiling daughter. But deviance itself foiled Yonneth's brutal desire: While the Queen learned kindness from the giving green, Yonneth stumbled under spell of the holovespa liar And railed against the power of unrequited dreams. Weeping, he wandered lost in phantasmagoric mire Far from the blush of Trickster's blossoming daughter. Now the Queen rose from her forest bridal bed, Now the Queen danced to the droning village drum, Now the Queen turned to the rise of her own ecstasy, Spinning alone, spinning free, the Queen soared On the passionate wings of her Greatkin female-he. All hail, Trickster's hermaphroditic daughter. Calling the Hive, she summoned Suxonli's mind, Pricking herself, she summoned eight more in kind. This was the nest for the shock of the new, The fate of the many rested on these few. Here was a Tammirring revel, not a Jinnjirri one Here was an ecstasy to which Yonneth could not come. So Yonneth was angry with Trickster's Daughter. Someone will pay, the Jinnjirri said Someone will come to my raping bed. So Yonneth took foul pleasure behind a silent tree From a young girl dazed on Rimble's Remedy, Yonneth forced Fasilla to his brutal bed. He smiled as her screams drowned out the repeating call Of Trickster's turning daughter. The Queen spun faster, the dance blurred round the fire! Hive mind united; suddenly rage and rape were the Queen's own mire The Queen's mind fell through Yonneth's shifting maw. Shock! Shock entered the Queen, shock entered the draw! Power surged and streamed, power screamed and Faltered… Inside Trickster's disoriented daughter. Stumbling, the he lost control of Rimble's line; Eight were too few to ground Yonneth's rage T'was a bad beginning for Rimble's first nine. As the minds of his circle began to cook and burn, All Suxonli was swept into the searing rogue turn Of Trickster's injured daughter. Flesh blackened as eight innocents fell dead, What power was this? Why was the Queen still alive? Then a boy emerged from the autumn wood Bearing the wrong answer for the questioning Hive: With glee, he threw bloody underwear at the masked face Of Trickster's menstruating daughter. Outraged, the meanest Elder of all proclaimed: «You have broken the Blood Day Rule, Suxonli's daughter has broken village law, Like a child, you played with maverick power, Like a child, you tampered with Tammirring draw. You knew the rule, You knew the law. Like an adult, you shall be punished For all Suxonli's sake.» Then, they bound Trickster's taboo daughter. The ropes charred, they fell away In unspeakable sympathy, the ropes would not stay. The spirit, hands, or heart Of Suxonli's Wild Kelandris, The ropes would not take part in Suxonli's rejection Of Trickster's Greatkin daughter. Now Kelandris spoke her mind: «You took a drug as you drummed the fire, You swallowed yellow holovespa liar. Weak, O my people, weak is this Hive— Were you stronger of will, eight might be still alive! Suxonli is Tammirring's disgrace, You have averted your eyes from Trickster's Face. You are lazy and soft, O village mine, Yet, stand ready to assault The only one soaring at the ancient fire Without the straw wings of holovespa liar!» So said Trickster's defiant daughter. The Hive swarmed, the Hive hissed Against the insolence of Kelandris. The sting of a whip cut open her back As each conscience lashed out With the cruel whine and cruel crack Of Suxonli's village law. Beware you wasp-tongued Daughters! Sick with the toxin of repeated stings, Kelandris wept, searching the night For her green-robed King. He answered by mind, appalled at her pain. Returning through time while the murderous Hive Gave Kelandris the very drug she decried To silence Trickster's truthful daughter. Begging Trickster to allow her to die, Kelandris fell to the ground, barely alive. Now something shimmered in blue and black, Thundering hoofbeats of the Green King come back. He knelt by his mate, he beat away the Hive And protected Trickster's savaged daughter. The Hive pressed forward. Smelling the drug on their breaths, Zendrak spat and cursed the spot. Unafraid of masks and revel, torchlight, He stared into their eyes, And promised the draw of Suxonli would rot For the crime commited against Kelandris tonight, Such was his love for Trickster's only daughter. Touching her battered body with a lover's care the King lifted the Queen to the back of his mare, Riding in silence, they left Tammirring. Now Zendrak crossed the border shift and wilds. Listening to the Queen's frantic whimpering— He realized she would lose their unborn child. Zendrak wept for Trickster's sad daughter. His beloved entered a private world of pain For sixteen years at the Yellow Springs, His love made the dark journey of the insane. Under the watchful eye of a certain Aunt By the water, by the iron medicine water, Zendrak left Trickster's mad daughter. The journey was long, and longer still, Hea
led of body but not of heart, Crazy Kel refused the daylight of sunlit climes, Preferring the dark gray of her shadow rhymes Instead of her Green King's summer thaw: Such was the despair of Trickster's wounded daughter. There would be no renewal for any draw, No common ground of change, No life-giving fertility From the woman in mourning black; Such was the supposed sterility Of Trickster's akindo daughter. Like father, like daughter, She's contrary but not always wise, And she'll continue to masterfully block The schemes of the one with pied eyes. Unless Rimble turns her heart—there'll be no dance Of remembrance by Trickster's ice-queen daughter. Meanwhile, the Green King waits for the new bloom, Meanwhile, the Green King warms the winter soul Of Trickster's frozen ground Like patient time knowing spring will come again, Zendrak collects a new circle of more seasoned kin For Trickster's winterbloom daughter. Staring very hard at the mesmerized faces of both Rowenaster and Tree, Kelandris broke off suddenly. Then she whispered, «And you shall be outcast one and all if you heed the heresy of Trickster's wild call.» Eyes locked between the three in silent, astounded recognition of their naturally occurring deviant nature. Kelandris swallowed hard, covering her mouth with a bewildered hand. Then, shaking her head violently, Kelandris muttered sharp cries of denial. Before Rowenaster or Tree could say anything, the woman in black climbed out from under the obsidian legs of the Mythrrim statue and fled down the path that had brought her into the Great Maze of Speakinghast. Torri broke the stunned silence. «Hey, professor—that was a good one! You really had me going there for a while. I mean, on our way in here I was thinking maybe you'd gone stark raving or something.» She and the rest of Rowen's class grinned with renewed appreciation for the professor's off-beat teaching methods. «And all the time, you had this wild actress waiting to speak poetry to us—Mythrrim style. Hey, and now I see why Widdero had to go. He was going to spoil everything, wasn't he? I mean, what if we'd decided to leave in a huff or something? That ball of yarn—well, we could've found our way out with that.» Torri beamed at Rowen. «Pretty amazing piece of street theater, professor. Wait till I tell Widdero how he nearly messed everything up. He'll stop being sore right then and there. He'll be amazed—and sorry he missed the fun. Wow, professor,» she added breathlessly. «You're brilliant.» Rowenaster blinked, then, realizing that Torri was expecting him to answer her, he smiled woodenly. Feeling suspended between some ancient place and the present, Rowen muttered, «Thank you.» Chapter Thirty-Five Neither Tree nor Rowenaster spoke much on their way out of the spiral labyrinth. Excusing himself from the professor's company, Tree headed for the comforting walls of the Kaleidicopia. He arrived in time to see Janusin open the door to Doogat, Trickster disguised as Old Jamilla, and a young Tammirring girl. Tree stopped where he was, wondering if Doogat would talk to him about the woman in black who had spoken poetry in the maze. Tree licked his lips, desperately wanting some answers. He felt light-headed and very nervous about something. He knew the woman in black was responsible for some of it, but he didn't understand why or how. He ran his fingers through his frosted Jinnjirri hair, his hand shaking. Tree decided to enter the 'K'. Seeing the color of Tree's hair, Doogat walked toward Tree, his expression thoughtful. When he reached the Jinnjirri, he said, «What happened to you?» Tree shrugged. «That woman—the one at your place this morning?» Doogat stiffened. «Yes?» he asked intently. «Well, she's—she's very strange, isn't she?» Doogat pursed his lips. «Where did you see her?» «In the Great Maze. Rowen took his class in there. Field trip.» Tree cleared his throat uncomfortably. «That woman was in there. Under the Mythrrim statue. She—she started talking. Uh—speaking. Kind of formal like. In verse.» Tree shook his head, tears coming to his eyes without warning. He fought for emotional control. «She told such a sad story. I can't get it out of my mind. Doogat—I'm—so scared. I don't know what's going on,» he whispered, his voice catching. «Please—I want it to stop.» Doogat grunted, gratified to learn that Kelandris had spoken as a Mythrrim. It meant his operation of psychic release on her had been successful. Turning his attention back to the trembling Jinnjirri before him, he said, «Where is the woman in black now?» Tree shrugged. «She stared very hard at Rowen and me at the end of it all. I guess she didn't like what she saw because she started cursing Greatkin Rimble and this fellow in the poem. Zen—something.» Doogat winced. «Go on,» he said unhappily. Tree nodded. «Then she ran away. And this stupid Saambolin girl started jabbering at Rowen. Something about him being a brilliant teacher. It was real hard to even understand what the girl was saying. I felt like I was two people at once—a student on a field trip and someone I didn't know. I knew things, Doogat. Weird things.» «And you felt older than your years?» asked Doogat calmly. Tree started sobbing in earnest now. He nodded his head several times, unable to speak. Doogat regarded him with compassion and pulled the twenty-one-year-old to his chest. He held him close while Tree bawled. Hearing the sound of Tree's crying, Janusin poked his head out of the kitchen. Seeing the terrified frost of Tree's hair, the sculptor walked toward Doogat hastily. When he reached the two men, Janusin said, «Sweet Presence, Tree—what happened!» Doogat handed Tree a green handkerchief from inside his pocket. Frowning at the telltale color, he handed it to Tree and wondered if Trickster had planted a green handkerchief in his change of clothes for a reason. On the other hand, he thought, Tree's favorite color was green. Perhaps «Old Jamilla» had known Tree would show up at the house—with the information he needed about Kel's well-being. Rimble-Rimble. «Tree's all right,» said Doogat quietly to Janusin. «Or he will be in a bit. Nothing that a cup of Barlimo's black brew won't fix,» he added. «Shall we?» Doogat asked, pointing Tree toward the Kaleidicopia's swinging kitchen door. «Good idea,» said Tree when he'd caught his breath. Tree's calm was short-lived, however. While Janusin poured steaming cups of Barlimo's favorite dark tea, Doogat made introductions. Hearing the name «Yafatah of Suxonli,» Tree shrieked. His hair lost all pretense of balance, pale green shifting to stark white. Janusin stared at Tree, toothless Old Jamilla, and Doogat. «An explanation would be nice,» said the sculptor to the Mayanabi Master, his expression bewildered. «I'll say,» said Tree warmly. «A nice, cozy explana—» Old Jamilla smiled at this point. Tousling Tree's hair, she interrupted gleefully, saying, «Too many explanations make you stiff, boyo—like wood.» Tree jerked his head away from Trickster, his eyes angry. Doogat gave Trickster a look of disapproval—which Trickster ignored—and answered Janusin by saying, «Seems Tree and Rowen spent part of the day with someone else from Suxonli. Kelandris. The same woman who knifed Po.» Old Jamilla inclined her head, her expression sly. Doogat watched to see what Trickster was going to do. When the old crone continued to drink her tea complacently, Doogat wondered if maybe he had misread the look on Trickster's face. Perhaps Trickster wasn't always up to something. Janusin put his hands on his hips. «Seems everybody in this house has met up with this woman in black—except me! Even Mab's aware of her. Did I miss something?» «I haven't met her,» retorted Timmer from the floor of the commons room. The Dunnsung was busy transposing music on a sheet of brilliant white paper. Humming a few bars to herself and making inky notes with a feather pen, she yelled, «Maybe this Tammirring Terror is Po's soulmate in disguise. Knifing Po was just her way of getting close. Tammi fashion.» Yafatah, who had been listening in silence until now, left the group and walked into Timmer's view. «She do be no terror,» said the girl. «She do be a very sad lady. And I'll thank you not to slur me draw,» added Yafatah indignantly. «Excuse me,» replied Timmer in her haughtiest voice. «And just who are you, anyway?» «Me name be Yafatah. Master Doogat says I will be living here—with me ma, of course.» «Live here!» said Timmer, spoiling the notation she was making. Swearing first at her own clumsiness and then at Doogat's meddling, Timmer got to her feet. She brandished her feather pen like a sword and stormed into the kitchen. «I demand a house meeting. Everyone's here except Rowen, and Barlimo. That's a quorum. And you,» she said pointing the wet pen at Doogat, «will be first on my shit-list!» «I beg your pard
on?» said Doogat cooly. Timmer advanced on the Mayanabi Master, her eyes blazing. «You don't live in this house, Doogat—we do! You're Po's teacher, and that's as far as your influence goes here at the 'K.' We accept new members by vote—our vote—and nobody's voted on this little Tammi brat! Or her mother! Do I make myself clear?» «Perfectly,» said Doogat. Trickster started laughing. His mouth was toothless, his guffaws loud, and his pied-eyes wild. Everything about Trickster was an exaggeration, even his humor. Doogat took a deep breath. «Perhaps this would be a good time to tell them, Jammy,» he said to the amused Greatkin. «Tell us what?» asked Po, entering the kitchen. He had been listening to Timmer's tirade from inside his first floor bedroom. He thought Timmer had done an admirable job of taking Doogat down. Smiling, the little Asilliwir took a seat at the kitchen table. Yafatah, who had returned to the kitchen, was standing behind Po's chair. She sniffed the air uncomfortably. «Doon't you bathe?» she asked. Po shrugged. «I'm Asilliwir. We're used to going for long periods of unwash. Caravan life,» he added grandly, expecting Yafatah to know nothing about any of it. Yafatah snorted. «I be kin to Clan Abbiri. We do be one of the oldest caravans in all Asilliwir. And we wash!» Po's face turned as scarlet as his dirty tunic. All of Po's housemates burst out laughing. Timmer regarded Yafatah with grudging interest. «Well, maybe I was too hasty,» she admitted. Then the Dunnsung added, «But can she pay her rent, Doogat?» The Mayanabi took a deep breath. «It doesn't matter if she can or not, Timmer—» «It certainly does,» retorted Janusin. Doogat regarded the sculptor kindly. «No, it doesn't.» Doogat waited to see if anyone else wished to contradict him. Everyone remained silent. Everyone except Old Jamilla. Picking up one of the invitations to the Kaleidicopia's Trickster's Hallows that lay in a neat stack in the center of the kitchen table, Trickster began humming an odd little tune. It got on the nerves of everyone present with the single exception of Yafatah. Janusin grabbed the invitation out of Trickster's gnarled hand, slapping the beautifully calligraphied paper back on top of the pile. Trickster immediately reached for it again. Janusin moved the pile. «Stop snooping,» said the sculptor with irritation. Trickster beamed at him. «It's my nature.» «Well—curb it, will you?» snapped Janusin. The invitations were his contribution to the Hallows. They had been expensive, and he didn't want unnecessary fingerprints all over them. The sculptor crossed his powerful arms over his chest, glaring at the short little crone. Doogat cleared his throat loudly. «Mind if I steal back center stage?» he asked Trickster. «I mean, I was saying something of importance here.» Trickster batted her eyes at Doogat. «Do continue.» Doogat gave Trickster a weary look and turned to Timmer. «Yafatah doesn't need to pay rent. She and her mother will be here as my guests.» Timmer wagged a finger at Doogat. «You can't have guests, Doogat. Only house members can have guests. You act like you own the 'K'!» she added with disgust. «I do.» There was a stunned silence. At that moment Barlimo walked into the kitchen, a bag of groceries in her arms. Heads turned immediately to Barlimo. Everyone present begged her to refute Doogat's statement. The Jinnjirri shrugged. «Sorry, loves. It's true. The Kaleidicopia belongs to Doogat. I'm simply the architect.» Chuckling at their disappointed faces, Barlimo added, «Oh, come on, my friends. Did you really think I ran this place out of my own pocket? The Kaleidicopia takes up half a city block—in the nicest section of the Jinnjirri Quarter. Even an architect's salary needs supplementing under conditions like these. And Doogat's been that supplement. So before any of you go pulling any more long faces, those of you behind in rent can thank him for his charity of heart.» Nobody said anything. «Such a well mannered lot,» remarked Old Jamilla drily. «Yeah,» said Doogat. «They remind me of you.» Old Jamilla made a rude sound with her lips and stared distantly out of the kitchen window. Then she said, «Rowen's on his way back.» «I don't see anything,» said Barlimo, craning her neck to put herself in Old Jamilla's line of vision. «Perhaps I was mistaken,» said Trickster, turning to look at the closed kitchen door. «Everyone here is so uncommonly contrary, it's difficult to tell you apart.» Now Mab walked slowly into the kitchen. Her slippered feet made no noise on the tile floor. She was wearing a pink bathrobe and looked sleepy. Tree regarded her worriedly. Mab smiled and patted his hand. «I'm much better than I was,» she whispered. «Started feeling more myself about two hours ago. Around noon.» Tree frowned, a strange thought popping into his mind. Noon was just about the time that Rowen's class had entered the labyrinth of the Great Maze. Well, that was ridiculous—connecting the two events. The front door of the house opened and slammed shut. As predicted, the professor had returned home. Seeing strange capes hanging on the pegs in the hallway, Rowen headed for the kitchen, his expression dour. He was more than a little relieved to see Doogat. «I have to talk to you,» said Rowen in a low voice that only Doogat could hear. «I witnessed something very strange this afternoon.» «After dinner, Rowen,» said Doogat. «I think this is a house meeting.» Rowenaster scanned all the faces. «So it is,» he said grumpily. «I should've known I'd get no peace of mind here. And all I've been thinking about for the past hour is a hot tub for these poor bones.» He sighed mournfully. Timmer rolled her eyes. «He's trying to get out of the house meeting.» «Please?» asked Rowen, pouring on his old-man waifish charm. «Take a vote,» announced Timmer. Then, turning to Doogat, she added nastily, «Or don't we get to vote anymore, Master Doogat?» Doogat shrugged. «Go ahead and vote.» So they did, and Rowenaster was given permission to bathe unanimously. As the old man stumped out of the room, Yafatah said, «What be his name?» .Barlimo clucked her tongue at herself. «Heavens, child—I forgot you hadn't been introduced. We'll do the honors at dinner. That's at eight sharp,» she added to Yafatah and Old Jamilla. «Can't stay—though thank you very much for the invitation,» said Trickster smiling at Barlimo. Then, making an unexpected departure, Trickster bowed to Doogat, and left via the back door. No one noticed that the invitations to the Hallows also left with the pied-eyed crone. She had stolen them during the testy vote over Rowen's attendance at the house meeting. Whistling between her gums, Trickster saluted a pair of particularly lovely looking autumn trees. The leaves rustled as the wind gusted suddenly. Now laughing with maniacal glee, Trickster threw Janusin's careful invitations into the air—literally scattering them to the four winds. Papers fluttered far and wide as Trickster personally selected those who'd attend the Hallows at the 'K.' Then Trickster began to turn. The clothes of Old Jamilla blurred and fell to the ground. They were empty. Down the street, a whirlwind of leaves pirouetted. Now they blew high into the air, joining the dance of black and yellow invitations as they drifted to each guest on Trickster's elite list. One invitation dropped so suddenly out of nowhere that it scared a bay gelding pulling a happincabby as he clopped rapidly through the city streets. The bay reacted by shying, nearly upsetting the happincabby. As it was, the gelding's Saambolin driver had to scramble to stay on the carriage. When the driver had recovered the reins, he noticed one of the wheels of the happincabby was loose. He pulled his horses to a stop. The Jinnjirri passenger inside the cab stuck his head out. «What's the problem?» The driver hopped to the ground, flinging Trickster's invitation through the open window. «Somebody's litter scared my horse,» he muttered as he jumped off the cabby and investigated the wheel. The Jinnjirri inside read the invitation carefully. He reread the invitation twice more, feeling more and more agitated as he did so. He knew this feeling. It was an aching in the heart. It was a calling that demanded an answer sooner or later. He had felt it in Suxonli—sixteen years ago when his sister was turning for the Hive as Rimble's Revel Queen. He had been too drugged out on holovespa and too high on the adrenaline rush of rape to respond that time. But this time, he thought, a slow, smug smile spreading over his lips, this time he'd be there. Oh, yes indeed. Cobeth folded Trickster's invitation neatly and put it in his pocket. Chapter Thirty-Six Fasilla lost her temper with Aunt. If the Jinnjirri healer wasn't going to help her find Yafatah, then she had no more time to waste talking to her. Fasilla got up from he
r bed inside the red and blue caravan wagon and started for the door. Aunt started swearing at her, the Jinnjirri's long hair turning four shades of crimson. Fasilla turned around, her eyes furious and hurt. «Aunt—we do be friends for many years. Doon't let's spoil it. I must go and find me child. This do be a fierce large city. There do be all kinds of people here. Some of them be good. And some of them be bad.» «Yes,» agreed Aunt getting to her feet. «But why do you automatically assume your very careful, very smart daughter is going to run into the bad ones? Trust the child, Fas. You can't keep her tied to you like some kind of animal. She must be free to explore. She must be free to make mistakes—» «No!» cried Fasilla, her expression wild. «No, Aunt. She doon't have to be free to make mistakes! You do be very wrong! Very!» Aunt's eyes narrowed. «What's wrong, Fas?» she asked, her voice suddenly calm as she dropped into a healer's light trance. Her hair shifted to obvious opalescent white. «Doon't you be trying to doctor me, Aunt. I be in no mood for all your Mayanabi tricks,» Fasilla added, all her previous prejudice returning. «You doon't have a child of your own—» «I have Burni,» snapped Aunt. «And any number of other children who come to learn from me. Giving birth to a child is a wonderful thing to do, Fas—» Fasilla started laughing at Aunt, her expression bitter. «Yes, when the child is expected. Or wanted.» Fasilla's voice caught. «It took me months to want Yafatah. Months. She doesn't know this and I don't ever want her to find out. You understand?» Aunt hesitated. «Do I need to remind you how sensitive Yafatah is? She's a Tammi, Fas. You can't hide things like this from a Tammi.» Fasilla started to retort then slumped against the wall. Tears slipped down her cheeks as she cried without sound. Aunt considered holding Fasilla in her arms, but decided against it. She suspected Fasilla was very close to telling her about the night in Suxonli. Such memories had to find their own way to the surface. All Aunt could do was be there when Fasilla gasped for air. Aunt sat on the bed again, trying to give Fasilla both physical and psychic room in which to speak freely. She wished Doogat had told her sooner about Fasilla's rape. Until three weeks ago, she had not known of Fasilla's participation in the Trickster's Hallows at Suxonli. Aunt watched Fasilla cry, her expression compassionate. What a terrible night that was, she thought, remembering the condition of Kelandris when Aunt had arrived at the Springs to take care of her wounds. Aunt grimaced. Fasilla wiped the tears off her face with the sleeve of her yellow tunic. Looking at Aunt sideways, she said, «I hate the Tammi, Aunt. I hate them.» She swallowed. «I—I know that do sound fierce bad. Like you said, Yafatah be Tammirring born.» She paused, flinching from her feelings, her back flat against the wall, her eyes shut tight. «You see—something happ—happened the night I—» she broke off, unable to say the word «conceived.» She shook her head, her breathing ragged. «It be hard to love a child given in rape. And Ya was such a child.» Aunt said nothing, her expression sad. Fasilla swallowed. «I did love Ya in time, of course. After I left Suxonli.» She paused. «The villagers didna' agree that I had been raped, you see. One of the elders—her name was Hennin—told me over and over that I'd come to the Hallows of me own free will. So there be noo one to blame but meself. After all, Rimble be the Greatkin of Deviance and deviance, she said, isna tame. If Trickster saw fit to have his way with me, then it do be an honor,» added Fasilla in a dull, pained voice. «Elder Hennin said that?» asked Aunt with dismay. Fasilla shut her eyes, rocking on her knees. «Over and over, Aunt. Seemed like every day.» Fasilla clenched her fists. «I wanted to leave that cursed place—that Suxonli. But I couldna' do so.» «Why?» asked Aunt. Fasilla's shoulders sagged. «Every time I started to cross them wretched Feyborne Mountains, I began to bleed. I didna' wish to kill the child—» «You were trying to cross the border?» Fasilla opened her eyes abruptly. «Of course not, Aunt. I told you, I didna'

 

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