by Andre Norton
Esmene said nothing. She had been brought for some purpose, and she knew that its nature would be revealed in good time. She folded her needle-pricked fingers in her lap and stared at the veiled face so near to her own. The veil wrinkled as if the face beneath might be smiling.
“You are dutiful, Esmene, to come at the cost of so much pain when those of the temple call.” It was a woman’s voice, she now was certain, and her companion’s shape was frail and small-boned, far different from her strong mountain-bred frame.
“Though I have doubted, as all who think must do, I believe that some of those in the temple work for the good of our kind. You would not call for me if there were not a driving need,” she answered.
There came a dry chuckle. “Some indeed! Fewer than is comfortable to think upon. But those of us who know the secrets, who guard the strange methods, are true to our teachings. And we have needs that none outside our tiny group can guess at.” The head cocked to one side, as if the woman studied Esmene’s expression.
“Have you met any of those who follow Thotharn, in past years, as you sat at your work in your stall?”
“More than one. An odd assortment indeed. There is something . . . wild and forbidding . . . about the feel I get from them, no matter how seemly their ways.”
The veiled head nodded slowly. “You have a skill, Esmene. One that you seldom use, and that only after long thought and soul-searching. One connected with, yet independent of your embroideries.” It was not a question.
Esmene started, though she managed not to show it. She had thought her secret to be hers alone. “It . . . is not a thing of which I speak,” she said huskily.
“Yet now is the time for speaking, for that is the skill of which we have need. Your old stall is set up for you. Your old clients have been told that you are here for one last fairing. We need your needle, Esmene, wedded to that talent that allows you to stitch other things than beautiful patterns into the designs that you work into cloth.”
“How did you know of it?” the woman asked. “I have never spoken to any of the matter, and I have used it only twice while here at the fair.”
“You know that the fair is monitored, that none may enhance his wares by magical means. The exercise of power, even a very small one, is detected by those whose task it is to keep surveillance over such things. The spark of magic that you stitched into those two items alerted the temple, and the matter was examined. But it was found that you had sewn healing into a headscarf for a child beset with pain ... and that it did the thing you intended and relieved the young one of his misery. The other . . . that amused us all. The priest for whom you embroidered the cloak with ravens had been, we found, cheating the gem merchants whom he was sent to regulate. Your spell countered his own, and left him to do his business honestly. For that we were grateful, for it is difficult to oversee all that happens at such an event as this fair has become in the past four centuries.”
“And what do you need me to embroider for you?” asked Esmene bluntly. “Have you more dishonest priests and priestesses?”
“Many. Oh, many indeed, but not for that did we bring you across the mountains. No, we need to spy upon a certain priest of Thotharn. We believe that he is engaged in evil practices among those who come to the fair, and we are sworn to protect all who come here. Yet he is sly and intelligent. No spy that we have sent has returned. Which may give you a notion of his kind.”
Esmene swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “And how is it that you can make him come to me?”
“There is a woman. He is beguiled by her—to a certain extent. She will desire a scarf broidered with butterflies. He will, we are sure, come to you, for you are by far the greatest mistress of your craft in this generation. And the eyes in the butterflies’ wings ...” The voice trailed off as unseen eyes stared into Esmene’s own.
“Will see. And I shall see what they see and tell it to you. But have you thought how difficult it may be for me to ply my trade convincingly and keep such a watch?”
“We have planned better than that. You will have a young apprentice, whom we will attune to your magical eyes. None notices apprentices. You may turn your own mind away from the work that you have done, for your strength is not now sufficient for such a dual endeavor.”
Esmene sighed. “I will do it,” she said. “But little do you know how such workings drain me of the little energy I have left to me. This will remove at least a year from the life I have remaining to me, and that is not much.”
A thin white hand reached from the gray robes and pulled aside the veil. A pair of twinkling black eyes looked into hers, their glance seeming to renew her flagging strength.
“Think you that there will be no reward, Esmene? You would do this thing from faithfulness alone, but we would not have it so. You will be rewarded, believe me. I will not say how, but it will be with a thing that will give you joy.”
When the veil was pulled back into place, the light went, and Esmene found herself sitting in darkness. Once more, hands set the belt at her waist, and she was wafted through halls, along streets, into echoing places and out of them.
When she was told again to open her eyes, she found herself beside the stall that had always been hers. The silks were already draped to make it a place of color and texture, and her ranks of needles were thrust into their velvet beds, waiting for her touch.
A fair young woman stood beside the worktable. She looked up as Esmene limped into the enclosure. “Ah, Esmene of the magical touch!” she said, coming forward to help the woman to her cushioned chair. “I am Nadesh, your apprentice. I shall be your swift feet and strong arms and busy hands. You shall be the skilled fingers and the knowing mind. That is suitable?”
Esmene smiled up at the eager young face above her. “Quite suitable. Has anyone come, as yet? Of course it is early, and the fair is not yet entirely set up. But I would have work to do to keep my mind from yearning toward my son.”
Nadesh laughed. “Indeed, when it was noised about that Esmene once again graced the place, many came to make certain that it was true. And there, if I am not mistaken, comes one back now . . . see? The tall woman with red hair!”
It was, indeed, a customer, and she was followed by others until the table was filled with small orders upon which the two women might stitch while waiting for more. Esmene set the pattern upon the cloth and did the fine detail, leaving the filling-in of the patterns to Nadesh, and so the two completed much in the first day of their partnership. They were compatible, which was a comfort to the older woman, who found herself in much pain as a result of the journey.
Two days went by. The fair was now under way, most of the stalls filled in all its segments, the streets thronged with incomers from the mountains and the lands to seaward and even from beyond the seas. Business was brisk, and only Esmene’s sure touch and instant inspiration kept them from falling behind in filling the orders they received.
On the third day the priest of Thotharn came, accompanied by a pretty woman who seemed to have more hair than brain. She giggled and hesitated and flirted with her companion until Esmene was fit to burst with impatience, but the dark-skinned fellow seemed charmed by her and consented to anything that she chose.
“Then butterflies,” she pouted. “Yes, I think butterflies— the big blue-and-gold ones with eyes in their wings—you know them?” she asked Esmene, who nodded. “And I need it by tomorrow, for we go to a celebration. Can you have it finished before sundown?”
“It will be done,” promised the needlewoman, and the coquette took her escort’s arm.
“We will come then.” She giggled. “Oh, do make it wonderfully beautiful! I have been told that you work magic with your needle!”
At the word “magic,” the tall man stiffened a bit, but it seemed completely innocent of meaning, and he relaxed and drew her away into the crowd.
Now the time had come for serious business, and Esmene went behind the curtain that divided the front of the stall from a private area,
leaving Nadesh to talk with any who might come. There was work-space there, too, and another chair to ease her painful bones. She sat in it and drew a long piece of gauzy stuff from a bundle.
Closing her eyes for a moment, she visualized her design . . . seven great butterflies, dipping and swooping above a field of poppies. Then she took up a silver needle and pulled from her head a long black hair.
She could hear Nadesh laughing from the front of the stall, but she knew that she must concentrate her failing strength, now, without distraction. She closed her ears and her eyes, pulling herself away into those dark and secret places that she had sought only in time of need. The hair seemed to curl about her fingers as she held the needle. Something tingled in her hands and her head and her heart. Then she opened her eyes and went to work.
The scarf was a thing of utter beauty. So lifelike were the insects that one expected any of them to complete its flight and alight upon a golden or scarlet poppy. The stitchery was so fine that the work seemed painted upon the cloth, and the black-centered eyes on the wings of the butterflies stood out boldly. Nadesh exclaimed over it, even before it was done.
When the last minuscule stitch had been set and anchored, it was very near to the time promised for the scarf’s delivery. Esmene fidgeted, worrying over the matter, until at last she turned to Nadesh.
“If the scarf goes with the woman, how will it aid in watching the man? No matter how taken he is with her, he will certainly not go everywhere with her, or she with him.”
Nadesh shook her head. “Have no concern. Miralle is not the fool she appears to be, and she will manage to give him the scarf as a token of her undying affection. Just wait. You will see. ...”
The two appeared among the crowd, moving toward the stall. Miralle was lovely, her hair powdered with golden dust, her hands a dazzle of gems that the priest had evidently bought for her in the jewelsmiths’ quarters. She bounced up to the stall and set her childish chin in her hand.
“Have you made me a lovely thing?” she asked. “Oh, show it to me. All have said that you do such magnificent work!”
Nadesh drew out the scarf and held it between her hands so that its glowing colors shimmered in the torchlight, and the butterflies seemed to move of their own volition. Even Esmene was charmed by it, though her hands had labored to make it.
“How marvelous!” shrilled the light voice. “Oh, Esbre, it is too much! You have been so generous with me, and you have bought nothing for yourself! Think how that would look draped across the back of your black cloak—dramatic! Dashing! You must take it for yourself, and by that you may see how much—how very much—I love you.”
As by now a crowd of admiring people had been drawn to the spot by the loveliness of the scarf, the priest could see for himself the envious glances cast at it by both men and women. He flushed with pleasure and drew forth the coins in payment.
“It is, indeed, a marvelous bit of work, madame,” he said. “Will your assistant stitch it to my cloak in the way most advantageous for displaying it?”
Nadesh took her needle and went out of the stall. Carefully, she stitched the scarf to the back of his black cloak, arranging it so that it showed to its best effect. The sighs of those who watched told the man that it was, indeed, attractive, and he offered extra payment for work done superlatively.
The two in the stall watched the hovering butterflies out of sight. Then Esmene turned to Nadesh. “Can you tell if you are properly attuned? I have never known that that could be done, except through the maker. Do you see another set of images inside your skull?”
Nadesh frowned, leaning against the counter of the stall. “I’m a bit dizzy—ah, it’s his motion as he walks. Yes, I can see the crowd. I can see— How strange! I can see us and the stall, growing smaller and smaller, with figures passing between my vision and the spot where we stand. Yes, Esmene, the attunement worked.”
The next day Esmene was ill. Not mildly. It was as if the evocation of her magic had drained her as dry as a summer runnel. She could not lift her hand or feed herself. Yet the stall must stay open, or Esbre might become suspicious. So Nadesh plied her own needle, and to good effect, for she was skilled at such work. Esmene lay on cushions in the back of the stall, passing into and out of awareness.
This left her open and subject to the visions of those black eyes upon the black cloak. Her head swirled with passing shapes, with strange beasts in the section of the animal tenders, and with whispering conversations that she was too weak and ill to catch or to remember. She only hoped that Nadesh was young and strong enough to grasp and hold it all, as well as tending the stall.
On the third day, she was able to sit in her chair again, though she could embroider for a short time only. The images still wavered through her head, and now she realized that the whispers that had troubled her fevered state, as well as those that hissed through her deepest thought now, held treasonous things . . . and worse. The images she saw were filled with flickering torchlight, and though she turned her thought away, leaving the watching to Nadesh, she was drawn inexorably into one of those visions as she sat in her chair, needle in hand.
“Ahhh!” wailed Nadesh, though softly.
Esmene almost shrieked herself, for she was seeing Miralle, bound to a pillar, being slowly flayed. “Where!” she gasped to Nadesh. “Can you tell in which direction this abomination is taking place?”
Nadesh swung one hand vaguely outward, toward the outermost part of the fair, where the beasts were kept. Then her forehead furrowed, and Esmene knew that she was conveying the terrible vision to the temple.
Esmene felt herself falling, though she realized that she was still in her chair. Still, she was falling, as if into herself, down and down through whirlpools of darkness and dismay. And when the fall ended, the fair was gone. She was gone. Nothing remained except a grateful blackness.
When she woke, she knew instantly that time had elapsed. Perhaps a great deal of time. The air had held the fee! of late summer when that vision had seized her. Now it was steamy, and she could smell ripe melons, which were only available in earlier midsummer. Her body felt strange, thinner, and when she raised her hands to look at them, she could see blue veins through their white fragility. No needle pricks scarred her fingers. Weeks had gone by, she did not doubt.
She sighed, and someone she had not seen before rose from a stool beside her couch. “Lady? You are awake?” came a gentle whisper.
“Yes. Have I been ill?”
“I cannot answer that, precisely. I will call Andrell. She will explain to you.”
Esmene’s heavy eyelids closed again, and she moved away a bit—not altogether, as before, but to a place in which she could rest and keep watch simultaneously. The touch of a small, hard hand on her brow brought her to alertness again.
“So, you have consented to rejoin us. We have been troubled about you, daughter. But your weariness went deep, deep, and you needed to rest untroubled by your flesh. And while you rested, we gave you your reward.”
Esmene blinked. “Oh. The reward. I cannot think what it might be. I have enough coin for my needs. I have my son and my husband’s mother. I have Horthgan, if you can consider him worthy of mention. What could you give me as a reward?”
The gray-veiled head bowed, and the small hand swept aside the veiling, removing it entirely from the upper body of the woman who stood there. She was young. Unexpectedly, inexplicably young. The black eyes were still wells of energy, and the lips beneath them were smiling with childish delight.
“Firstly, let me inform you that your work with the scarf did its task exceedingly well. While we have not been able to uproot the worshippers of Thotharn, we have at least removed from activity the priest Esbre. He had sacrificed more than one to that enigmatic god. Miralle gave her life to bring him into our hands, and even now he is being . . . educated. From him we have learned of matters that will give us much aid in keeping watch over his kind. You earned that reward, Esmene.”
“But what?
What reward?” The woman felt the itch of curiosity growing within her.
“Oh, you are slow!” teased Andrell. “Stretch yourself, lazy Esmene. Thrust your feet down, move your legs. Feel!”
Startled, Esmene complied. And her long legs extended themselves, toes pointing, stretching. With no pain. Weakness, yes, as was fitting when one had lain abed for weeks. But no pain!
“What . . . did you do?” she asked, moving herself about on the couch, testing out all the old problem spots. The grinding ache in her pelvis was gone. The sharp line of pain down her right hip to the foot. All of them had evaporated as she’d slept.
“The Three did, indeed, leave secrets for our use. In each generation, those chosen are trained to use them. Healing by means of opening the body and correcting matters within it was one of the most frightening of those, and yet by means of the techniques handed down to us from those far-traveling ones we have made many well who would have spent their lives in misery.”
Esmene pushed herself into a sitting position, though her head whirled for a moment once she was upright. “You have made me whole again? Able to climb the mountains as I teach my son to hunt game and to track predators? Able to share the work of the gardens? That is a reward for which I have no words to thank you.”
Andrell smiled, a bit sadly. “There are others who might benefit from our secrets, but they fear. You might have feared, also, if you had not been already unconscious. But now you can return home astride a horse instead of cooped in a stuffy litter. With Horthgan.” She looked closely at Esmene as she said this.
“Horthgan! That coward!”
The priestess laid her hand upon Esmene’s. “You have been bitter in your pain and helplessness. You lost a husband, the father of your child. Horthgan, through no fault of his, lost the one closest to him of any in all the world. We have examined the matter closely. Your man’s brother was not at fault. How can one blame him for being in another place when the cat attacked his twin? He came as fast as feet could bear him, and he came too late. Can you imagine how that has rankled in his spirit in all the years since?
