Colors in the Dreamweaver's Loom

by Beth Hilgartner

  "Bound?" Zan exclaimed, startled. "By little strips of silver?"

  The shapeshifter turned back, anger again blazing in her eyes. "Don't mock me!" Then the anger drained away, replaced by a frown of puzzlement. "You really are that naive." There was wonder in her tone, mixed with the faint sting of what Zan began to think might be habitual contempt. "The chains are spell-wrought, to keep me in this shape. I can't touch them." To demonstrate, she tried to take one of the wrist chains between two fingers. She couldn't close her fingers on it; the way her fingers were kept apart by some invisible force reminded Zan of the way like poles of a magnet pushed apart. The shapeshifter's lips twisted bitterly. "A gift from my Vemathi masters." Again she started away.

  "Wait! Did they—the Vemathi—send you to spy on us?"

  Spy! The shapeshifter's disgusted thought rang in Zan's mind, though when she spoke, her tone was even and rather colorless. "I wouldn't give my Vemathi masters the time of day unless they beat it out of me." Then she strode to the door and went out, slamming it behind her.

  Iobeh smiled wanly at Zan. She meant that. I don't think we need to worry about her on that score.

  "No," Zan agreed. "Are you all right? I could tell that was painful."

  Yes. But I'll recover. She has very powerful emotions, and even without provocation she is full of anger. It's odd. Iobeh shook her head, bemused. Her anger is very like the anger of the horses.

  Vividly, Zan recalled the caparisons of silver on the horses, and shivered, remembering what the shapeshifter had said about being bound in one shape. "The horses! My God." She saw her horror reflected in Iobeh's eyes, so she made herself shake her head. "I'm letting my imagination get the better of me," she said, forcing herself to feel the conviction she put into her tone. "Who could be so cruel?"

  At that point Karivet rejoined them, dressed in a gilttrimmed tunic over a pair of loose silk trousers. They related the exchange with the shapeshifter. He listened attentively, and when they had finished, he smiled with relief.

  "It is comforting to know that we needn't worry about her ferreting out our secrets, but she sounds terrifying. Would you really free her, 'Tsan?"

  Zan shrugged. "If I could, I would. Right now, though, I don't see how. We dare not do anything to offend our hosts until we have negotiated with them."

  Further discussion was interrupted by a knock on the door. It was Efiran, who had come to fetch them to tea. He smiled kindly at them.

  "I trust you are refreshed. Karivet, I promised to show you trees, so we will take our tea in the garden."

  He led them through the stone halls, down a wide flight of stairs, and out into the lovely enclosed garden they could see from their suite. It was a lush green place, full of the quiet speech of two fountains. There were many flowers, and the trees, though nowhere near the size the twins were used to, were enough to give the place a measure of the cool mystery of the forest. Efiran settled them on stone benches near one of the fountains while servants spread the meal out before them. Pifadeh poured tea into delicate cups and passed them around. Karivet and Iobeh eyed the fragile china with a mixture of distrust and awe until Zan surreptitiously demonstrated how to hold the dainty things.

  Before Pifadeh had finished pouring, they were interrupted.

  "I thought I'd find you here. Am I too late for tea?"

  Zan turned and saw a girl of about her own age. She looked very much like Efiran, with the same fierce nose, but she was not dressed as a daughter of the house. Instead of an embroidered caftan, she wore a plain, rather faded kneelength tunic and a pair of worn sandals. Her hair was braided and pinned severely to her head. Oddest of all, she wore a sword, slung over her shoulder in the Khedathi fashion. As soon as she noticed Zan and the twins, she backed away.

  "I'm sorry, I didn't realize you had company."

  "Vihena, stay," Efiran said quickly. "You must meet our guests: Karivet, Iobeh, and 'Tsan. They have come from the Orathi to speak with the Lord of the City. This is my daughter, Vihena."

  "I thought the Orathi didn't travel—and I've never seen hair that color."

  Zan caught herself on the edge of responding, but realized that the words had not been spoken aloud.

  "I'm pleased to meet you," Vihena said. "I hope you will enjoy our City."

  "Thank you," Karivet replied.

  Vihena sat down on a bench opposite them and took a cup of tea from her mother. The fragile china looked overly delicate in her hand, but her movements were deft. She studied the guests with frank curiosity while her father turned back to them.

  "I have informed the Lord of your arrival, and he sends his greetings. He regrets he is unable to meet with you now, but he asks me to invite you to a banquet this evening, to be held in your honor. He also bids me to continue to make you welcome here, since building is going on at his palace and things are in disarray. I trust this will be satisfactory to you."

  And if it isn't? Iobeh signed.

  A pity, Karivet responded.

  Zan suppressed a smile. "Thank you. We are grateful for your hospitality."

  Vihena's eyes sharpened with sudden interest. "You're talking to one another, aren't you? It's like the Khedathi hand-language, isn't it? Only I don't understand it. Do all the Orathi talk like that?"

  Iobeh shook her head.

  "My sister is mute," Karivet said stiffly. "It is how we speak together."

  Mute. Zan heard Efiran's startled thought: Why send a mute child to a parley? There is something odd here.

  Vihena looked at Iobeh and smiled suddenly. "I thought you were just shy."

  Iobeh smiled back and signed.

  "She says, 'I'm shy as well,' " Karivet translated.

  Vihena laughed. "I don't blame you." She turned to Zan suddenly. "And where are you from? You're not Orathi, are you?"

  "I am now."

  "Well, what were you before?"

  "I have always been a stranger,'' Zan said softly. It was true, too; she had always tagged along after her father, without any real place of her own or friends her own age. With a twinge of the old loneliness—and newer grief—she remembered telling her father angrily that the closest thing she'd ever had to a home was Logan International Airport. She forced herself back to the present as Vihena asked another question.

  "What's it like, always being a stranger?"

  The question cut too keenly. Zan's throat began to thicken and her eyes to sting. She couldn't cry here! Out of a desperate need to deflect Vihena's questions, Zan struck back. "I think you know what it's like—I have seen no other Vemathi who carry swords."

  Dead on the mark, and a hard hit—though I dare say I deserved it, Vihena thought.

  Pifadeh eyed her daughter with a quelling look, which Vihena met with a slightly sheepish smile. "I beg your pardon, 'Tsan, for my mannerless questions. My curiosity frequently gets the better of my upbringing." At this last, mother and daughter met each other's eyes, their faces showing mixtures of defiance and apology. The tension shifted subtly away from Zan.

  "It's quite all right, " Zan said, beginning to relax now that an end had been put to the questions. "Efiran, will there be a chance for us to speak seriously to your Lord at this banquet, or will it—" she paused, fishing for words— "will it just be to welcome us?"

  "There will be dinner and speeches, then perhaps some singing and dancing. I doubt very much that there will be any time for discussion. That sort of thing is best left to the morning hours, is it not?" Under the words, clearly, Zan heard something else. The Lord will not meet with them any sooner than he must. We must have time to take their measure.

  "A banquet will be pleasant," Zan said mildly, "but only if we are able to meet seriously with the Lord tomorrow. I would not have his concern for our tiredness, or anything else, serve as an excuse not to begin tomorrow."

  Efiran looked at her, startled. "Of course not. I am sure the festivities will not go on too late."

  "Even if they do," Zan pressed, "we will consider it an affront if our
meeting with your Lord is put off."

  Shrewd, he thought. Their appearances are deceptive. I must caution my Lord. They are so young—without my advice, he will underestimate them, just as I have done. "I understand you perfectly, 'Tsan, and I admire your dedication."

  Zan's head had begun to ache. She stifled a sigh, then felt Iobeh's light, reassuring touch on her arm. Can we go indoors? she signed. I'm tired of these people—they're full of worry.

  Karivet spoke up. "My sister asks, since there is this banquet tonight, would it be possible for us to rest for a while? We are not used to being away from the forest, and it tires us."

  "Of course," Pifadeh responded promptly. "Vihena, would you take them back to the guest suite?"

  Vihena complied with grace. When they reached the door of the suite she hesitated, and Zan heard, as clearly as speech, her thought that she'd like to be invited in to talk to these odd people alone. But Zan, whose head felt as though it were full of hot coals, ignored her unspoken hope.

  As soon as the door was shut behind her, Zan went to a divan and lay down. "My head is on fire," she moaned.

  "I remember," Karivet said quietly. "Spirit-gifts do that sometimes, especially when you aren't used to them. Perhaps it will help, 'Tsan, if you try to sleep."

  Obediently Zan shut her eyes, but sleep wouldn't come. Her head pounded while scraps of other people's thoughts swirled inside it. She was vaguely aware of Karivet and Iobeh's concern, but she couldn't find the strength to reassure them. Over and over her thoughts circled anguished around the questions of what, and why, and how. Other people's thoughts buzzed in her brain like hornets. She couldn't sleep; she couldn't even begin to relax. Finally she could bear no more. She sat up suddenly, put both hands over her ears, and said aloud, in English, "I shall go mad!"

  Very likely, a voice retorted sharply. And I with you.

  But that was English, she thought. I am losing it.

  Thoughts have no languages, or all languages, the voice explained, exasperated.

  Zan was so startled that she opened her eyes. To her surprise, the shapeshifter stood looking down at her, her lips pressed tightly together.

  "How did you get in here?" Zan demanded.

  A faint quirk, which could have been caused by amusement, tugged at the shapeshifter's lips as she pointed to the door.

  "Very funny. What do you want?"

  How did you learn to hear thoughts? the woman replied.

  "It just started, all by itself. Look, will you go away? I have a shocking headache and I'm in no mood for idle pleasantries."

  There is nothing idle about my presence here; your distress summoned me. Somehow her tone wasn't soothing or comforting; she seemed reproachful. The thought-speech frightens you. It shouldn't. Don't fight it. Relax. Try answering silently; sometimes that helps.

  How do you know so much about it? Zan thought, her pain making her grumpy. But it seemed that her headache was subsiding slightly.

  It's how my people communicate with one another. I didn't know other peoples could—the Vemathi can't. Do your little friends do this too?

  Iobeh hears feelings, Zan found herself answering. She hadn't meant to tell the shapeshifter that. It alarmed her. She tried to close off her mind. The pounding in her head redoubled. She shut her eyes and pressed the heel of one hand against her brow.

  Don't fight it.

  "But I don't want to hear what other people are thinking all the time!" Zan cried. "I don't want to know! No one will ever be able to have secrets from me. I don't want to be that different from everyone else!"

  It is too late for that. The thought-speech is not a thing that can be denied. You are different. You must live with it.

  Zan looked at her in horror. "You' re a terrific comfort," she snapped.

  I didn't come here to be comforting, the shapeshifter retorted with an edge of contempt. One can't change one's nature, but one can learn to control the thought-speech. You can learn not to listen, if you wish to cripple yourself with scruples. Concentrate on hearing silence—that usually works at first.

  How do you hear silence? Zan demanded.

  The shapeshifter's mind went suddenly still. Zan's mind was full of the sort of thick, nearly tangible silence of an empty church. Her headache eased; it was a tremendous relief. Carefully Zan took the silence to herself. The welcome stillness in her mind made her smile.

  "Thank you," she said aloud, holding the silence in her thoughts.

  "Don't thank me. That sort of thought-distress is contagious. Your poor little friend—Iobeh, is it?—was probably having an awful time with you so close to her. I could hear your pain and complaints even up in my quarters." Without another word, the shapeshifter went out.

  Iobeh? Zan thought, but heard no answer. Experimentally, she tried wishing Iobeh, with her gentle hands and smile, were with her. After a moment the girl came to the door of the inner room. Feeling triumphant, Zan grinned at her. Iobeh smiled back.

  "I'm feeling better," Zan told her. "Are you all right?"

  Iobeh nodded. Did you sleep?

  "No. I argued with the shapeshifter. It helped." She noticed then that the sky outside the windows had deepened to twilight. It was later than she had thought. "Look at how late it is getting," she added. "When do you think they'll come for us?"

  Iobeh shrugged. I'm going to change, she signed. I want to wear Eikoheh's weaving-it makes me think of home.

  Zan's eyes lit as she nodded. "That's a good idea," she approved. "We all should. After all, they're expecting foreigners. We might as well give them a good, outlandish show. Too bad we haven't got tanned hides like Fafimed's."

  SEVEN

  The banquet hall of the Lord's palace was a vast white and silver room. Empty, it would have looked like a snowscape. Now, full of people, the room swirled with dizzying color. Even the servants wore bright livery. Great brass and crystal chandeliers, dazzling with candles, hung over tables set with elegant china and silver. The head table, on a raised dais at one end of the hall, had place settings on only one side of it. As the Orathi guests were escorted to these places of honor, Zan realized with discomfort that they would be on display for the entire banquet.

  The food was lavish and the company merry, but Zan, seated between Iobeh and Karivet, felt cut off from the other guests. Iobeh sat beside Efiran, who skillfully kept up a one-sided conversation with her, while at Karivet's side was a plump matron who spoke to him in the syrupy coo some childless adults use with small children. Zan was acutely aware of the many curious eyes upon her, but with Karivet and Iobeh's attention occupied, she was unable to talk with anyone. She found herself wondering whether her hosts had intended to isolate her so effectively—and if so, why. The whole situation made her feel that she carried some deadly contagion the Vemathi were trying to contain.

  She hadn't liked her first impression of the Lord of the City. He was younger than she had expected, and a great deal slimier. The Vemathi were handsome people, full of dignity and grace, and their Lord was strikingly attractive. However, his slick charm and the studied quality of his politeness screamed insincerity at Zan. And she disliked the way he had lingeringly kissed her hand; it had taken all her resolve not to scrub her hand on her tunic the moment he released it. After his long and rather flowery speech of welcome, he had had them escorted to their seats, not giving them the opportunity to do more than stammer their thanks. The encounter made her remember a wine-and-cheese gathering at which her father's publisher had deftly swept them away from someone she later realized was a would-be writer. It had set her teeth on edge.

  When the last of the dishes had been cleared by the everattentive servants, the speeches began: a lot of platitudes about how pleased everyone was that they'd come. Zan's polite smile wore thin long before she was done with it. Finally the speeches drew to a close. Zan's hope that they might be able to escape was dashed when there was a stir in the musicians' corner, and one of them came forward.

  "Oh, you lucky boy," Zan heard the ma
tron say to Karivet. "You're in for quite a treat. That's Hobann's minstrel."

  Zan's interest came alive at the mention of a familiar name. Efiran had told her that Hobann collected curiosities; she sat up straighter to observe the minstrel. He was a Khedathen. He held a stringed instrument that resembled a small harp. Taking a small silver key from around his neck, he began tuning strings while the hall quieted. When it was utterly still, he put the key away and looked around at the courtiers. He gathered their attention with his dark, arresting eyes. Then he began to play. The music was strange to Zan's ears, but haunting. He played the verse through once before he added his voice, a pure, silvery tenor. The music was too intricate for Zan to follow the words, but she felt Karivet stiffen beside her. She nudged him. What is it? she signed under the table.

  He's bold, he responded. It's a song about the Wanderers.

  When the minstrel had finished the song, during the applause, he glanced for the first time in the direction of the Orathi delegation. His eyes met Zan's and his lips parted in surprise. He looked away quickly, but a blush tinged his golden skin. Zan wondered what had caused his obvious embarrassment before she remembered Karivet's comment: a song about the Wanderers. She nudged Karivet under the table. I don't look like a Wanderer, do I? she signed.

  He smiled ruefully. You do not look like an Oratheh.

  At that moment the matron, sensing Karivet's wandering attention, reasserted herself by asking another question, and he left Zan to her thoughts. Zan gnawed her lip, her mind spinning the implications idly as the minstrel began another song. Gradually the music wove her into its spell, and she found herself wishing he would never stop playing. Though his music was foreign to her, it was very lovely. At last, however, he did stop and went back to sit with the other musicians, who began tuning their instruments. As he rejoined them, she noticed that his was the only fair head in a crowd of dark ones. Her eyes narrowed; Hobann collected curiosities.

  As the musicians tuned, people began to get up and stretch, milling and talking while servants moved the lower tables out. Suddenly the musicians struck up what could only be dance music, and some of the courtiers began to dance. Zan watched them as they wheeled and spun in intricate patterns, until a light touch on her elbow distracted her.